The trees started growing again after the fall of the moon. The darkness and its perils receded, and as they drew out of the caves in droves, they stood in amazement. The sprouts were coming up from the dust and rubble reaching for the glimmering hazy light. On scarred knees these ravenous people smelt the first blooms of already browning dandelion flowers.
Eyes became bleached in the pits, and words became everything. Generations had passed and withered in the dank of the underground. The sewage their forefathers had swam through to live had been washed away, yet the stench of death still remained. Air littered with spinning particles of blacks and grays tasted like purity in noses and lungs.
Gone were the days of creation.