The desert adapts. The people adapt. Live. Die. Struggle. Suffer. Create. The people in the real world beyond Demesne's ring are not all manufactured perfection. They deal.

So much is happening and yet nothing at all.

Wold domination is exhausting and cliche. People ought to just focus on being individual responsible citizens of the earth instead of assholes.

The humans create life, and senselessly cause death. For nothing.

Do you want to guess what's in here?" I asked Dash. "I think I've got it figured out already. There's a new supply of red notebooks in there, and you want us to fill them in with clues about the works of, say, Nicholas Sparks." "Who?" I asked. Please, no more broody poets. I couldn't keep up. "You don't know who Nicholas Sparks is?" Dash asked. I shook my head. "Please don't ever find out," he said.

Dumped doesn't even begin to describe it. If you're going to use a trash metaphor, incinerated is more like it.

Nick and I could become goodwill ambassadors for the city now that the porno shops on 42nd Street are gone. Must make mental note to contact mayor.