we are sticks in the guise of men."
It had been many years since anyone, man or machine, had set foot into old Topanga Canyon. The Santa Ana winds rushed through the canyons, whipping about the tall grass that poked up through the cracks of ruined asphalt. In the distance were the last illuminated remains of the city once called "los angeles", other than the stars above, the world was the purest shade of black, devoid of light.
A man, nay, a machine in the guise of a man--, sat perched on a rusted old guardrail, staring down at the few shimmering lights in the distance. His footsteps led up to the guardrail, and out of the canyon-- the only tracks to be found throughout the entire canyon. Not much of anything lived here anymore, except for mice and a few species of birds. There wasn't enough food left up here for the coyotes to eat anymore, since the deer had long since died out, and much of the wildlife had gone with it.
The old ashphalt was beginning to frost over as the wind chilled it to below thirty degrees, but the machoid still didn't move. Its unkempt hair whipped about wildly in the wind, much like the tall grass that had overgrown much of the guardrail that the machine was sitting upon.
The city lights seemed to glare at him, and the machine grimaced, though noone could see it, nor would anyone.
(shit. i've got class. more to this later, and i've still gotta put that line in...)