There were manicured gardens even though the world had ended. I was touring them. Miles of dead city, with lovely gardens here and there.

The city was layer upon layer of cracked paint. I was singing opera and listening to my voice echo.

I took up residence in a garage with early automobiles. I considered them such, but they looked like pipe sculptures or jungle gyms.

Somebody came to the door and I had to drive the vintage-pipe fire truck to the door. But it was old, steam power and hard to steer. I kept passing the door and tried to pull it open, but the knob kept slipping from my hands.