The rotten city of New York grumbled noisily in the early morning, it’s stomach churning with the remains of subways and tunnels. Its back ached from the heavy landing of dilapidated buildings and its very skin wrinkled with the cracking pavement. Officials had long since declared the air un-breathable and so long as the once-were plants in the once-was Central Park were frozen in their brown and rotting slumbers, New York had breathed its last. But so had the rest of the continent. America had been the last to die, wilting slowly in it’s stubbornness. The northern hemisphere had of course been flooded, the middle portion dried to a crinkled crisp until the world was nothing but a dried pimple, oozing at the poles. The life that had once flourished in the city was now obsolete, nothing but ghosts drifting silently in memories through boarded up shops and dancing so enchantingly on the stages. The Christmas lights were still dangling in the trees, though the light had left them, as had the spark from the world. Faded red bows drooped off the doors of buildings, the edges torn and stringy. The air was still haunted by the clashing noises of car horns and famous Broadway songs. Old scores had been settled when the walls collapsed and upscale stores fell to their knees beside the pawn shops, the rich and the poor sharing their graves. The streets were still littered with rubber wheels as rotting vehicles forever claimed their place upon the streets of the city. The bridges had fallen, the greatest things that held the city together all those years had plunged head-first into the sea and drowned into oblivion. The last breath of the Big Apple had dispersed into the air, the final spark of it's nightly magic fragile in the toxic skies and burnt to ashes, laiden upon the ground of buried dreams. It was the end of America. The end of the world.