The depressed tried to reach the depths while the pseudo-know-their-way people left for their vacuum-made destination. I stood at the edge of every road, thinking I could make something out of the patterns of grass; I know these questions well enough—the lie that the habitat made for itself. And now, I’ve been forced to play pretend.
Loved it!
Don't play pretend. The world might be messed up, but you're not. Maybe the patterns won't tell you everything, but they're a start.