Present time.
Sands, golden sands… Hot sun baking hotter sands. Sands slipping away, washing away… The waves lap the shores over and over again, carrying great parts of beach away and into the ocean.
Undermined by the great storm. July, there is no bed left for the mountain to sit on.
One smoking Sulfurous giant is a warning with no recourse. The brother is the dangerous one. People on the run. Water turned to stone.
The great Cayce warned us about it first.
We wish we could be frank, but Oregon is a trembling child ready to burst with a terrible fit… Too many tears. Too much water.
Volcanos. Earthquakes. Floods.
What we thought we knew in April, we will no longer be aware of in November. A strange world, refugees.