This Wasteland

The ideas I have about this wasteland.
Everyday I worry about the pollution.
Great buildings once stood in silent attribute to the people around it, now rise out of the polluted fog.
I often worry about finding food.
I never eat what I want, only what I can.
When I dream of home,
I realize that I did this to myself.
I am here until I am finished.
They come to me randomly,
There is no order to my ideas.
Only chaos, just like this wasteland.