Salitter is my answer to this one every time.
The silence. The salitter drying from the earth. The mudstained shapes of flooded cities burned to the waterline. At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind.
Here, also.
Crossed the border with the seasoning literally tied to the roof rack of his car and hasn’t been heard from since. #nogoodpotats