History, fractured forward.

We visited a notable structure today, one designed to carry sound in a dignified form. Curiously, what was once a church morphed into a postal office for the community. It is now a free clinic for those the Affordable Care Act and expanded Medicaid left dangling. 

I whistled softly, listening to the delicate reverberation, echoes of fluid music rippling throughout the lofty ceilings, across marble floors, and wondered at the stories such a place might tell. 

Once upon a time, people used it as a religious social center. Then it became a communications center. Now? It’s a place where both former applications have failed those who depend on it. 

History flows into a fractured future, utopian plans endlessly becoming someone’s echoing dystopia. 

I wonder, flawed organic creature that I am, if it will someday shelter refugees from the weather or other stressors, or if someday its marble, musical interior might become a communal workspace. There is no seer to ask, no way to guess what might one day occur. 

Build your walls. Build your stories. Someday, if they’re strong enough, someone else will make a very different use of them. That, my dears, is dystopian nonfiction. 


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