Wapun Meadow boorish

Face-to-face, nose-to-nose, the sun casts a venus flytrap shadow over that single eye. That single eye, pulsing and roiling like a stomach. The dark face. The red shoulders. The bare neck. This is like waking up in an airport, having to set your watch back, the signs lit up with a language you've never heard of.
They were wrong, he says, and Taylor takes it as gospel. There is a young man sitting during Mass; when the wafer is passed to his mouth, it bursts into flame. 
Let's try this, Taylor
burn
hiss
hurt
The air, it tastes like smoke, like sweat, the waste of a living creature, all its cells, all its conveyor belts, the factories. It also tastes of Merrick. He swallows. I should've.
He turns away, closes his eyes, breathes in through his mouth and out through his nose, slow and metered. When he returns back to his stare, something has shifted. Has clicked. I believe that one day, a great rain will come. And it will wash the trash and the scum away.