There is a sinister fog that hangs over us- -on the days the wind blows northerly. A miasma of horrific mass and volume- -drifts through our town like a phantom. From over the tracks, there are stacks- -that curdle the air like warm milk. We breathe in the toxins and we wonder, why is our town so chronically ill? There is a pestilence that's cursed us- -from a jungle of steel pipe- -and riveted witches' cauldrons.