Elias sat on the porch of the only saloon left standing, his boots caked in the kind of red dust that suggested the earth itself was rusting. In West Blabla, words were the only currency left. People traded stories for water, and legends for a place to sleep.
He stood up, shaking the dust from his duster. "The Prophet didn't know anything, Miller. He just had a better publicist than the rest of us". west_blabla
As Elias walked toward the edge of town, the chatter of the wind grew louder, a cacophony of "blabla" that promised everything and gave nothing. He didn't look back. Some stories weren't meant to be finished; they were just meant to be left behind in the dust. Elias sat on the porch of the only