La Navidad de los lobos

The world was changing fast, relentless and poisonous. The world was beginning to smell different, and the place they all came from was overnight a village sunk in the past, a village of cracked houses with walls eaten away by an angry vine. The young were suddenly old, the old were even older, the churches looked like garages, the bars were made of aluminum, formica and lit with fluorescent lighting, and every god smoked a foul-smelling blond tobacco fueled by the foul smell of chewed chlorophyll. Now that many of them are dead, I feel that someone has erased any trace, any trace that leads us to the origin of everything, and while I am still locked in this empty apartment, waiting for the inevitable power outage, waiting for the colors of the outside world to complete their itinerary towards definitive nothingness.