Women wore funny hats and men rode on bicycles everywhere. There was a sense that this was a homely little town (one got the feeling they fancied themselves as such anyway) and yet there was too much extravagance. It was too frenzied, too exotic. There were too many people and they were all moving in all sorts of directions. There were too many houses and they had too many eccentricities. The noise – cacophonous – came from everywhere as all spoke and laughed at once. You couldn’t tell if they were even communicating but they made as if they were. Occasionally, little coordinated dance numbers would break out. Suddenly on the horizon a great flood of deeply dark, viscous liquid rolled towards the scene. It was so all-encompassing it seemed it might blot out the whole midground of the sky. The people rushed frantically in one direction, away from the oncoming wave, trampling many as they went. Finally one shouted, “The high ground! Get to the high ground!” and following his epiphany the horde veered left towards the hill overlooking the town. Before they all made the climb, they stopped to grab their gathered chairs (which served as a sort of bartering currency amongst them) so as to stand on them when they got to the top of the hill, thus further distancing themselves from the rising tide. However, chairs and faces were broken as many tried to grab multiple chairs to increase his or her chance of survival that much more. Only a few made it to the top of the hill but they were eventually washed away as well.

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