I’m in a fallout. Literally.
I write to you now, from an iMac from about 500 years ago, which I salvaged from the scrapyard. I’m getting a LOT of nuclear interference. Yes, that’s a thing for you uneducated.
December 5th, 1983.
A hooded figure approaches the bar. The dark coat he sports is covered in raindrops. Fresh raindrops.
The smell of the tavern is alcoholic. Men lay outside, regretting their choices.