North of Sorrow

The smell of piss, shit and decaying flesh fill the air.

Between the screams and golden oldies you hear weeping; if you listen close you can hear memories.

Picture frames filled with familial recognition offer a feigned beacon of hope.

The loving eyes of a dead family dog.

A waiting room for the dying; a mausoleum for the living.

If you look for it on a map, you will find it south of apathy and north of sorrow. To the east and west are the desolate wastelands of coloring books and bingo.

Apathy fills the air.