There are rumbling sounds at a distance.

The section of the building that faces the dump yard cracks and crumbles to the street. People crash with it, crying and shouting. Many others peep out and look with a curious glint in their eyes, like they are observing a rare insect or animal. That is the look we imagine, because from where we stand they are just black specks dotting the skyline.

The dying people falling in to the dump-yard, and to their deaths, with distant plops. A few survive and wail through bloody mouths and cracked bones. In a second or more, the building gets ripped in half and our lives ahead follow suit. The world is divided into the dead and the alive, the lucky and the horribly unlucky.

In the evening, we stand with roasted corn watching the debris and the disconnected limbs. We watch them powder the bricks, red grit in the face of a crisis, to reach the trapped members.

The air is sombre, but also apathetic. We walk away once the food has been consumed, tossing the gnawed remnants of the corn core on the dead stone pieces.