It will be factories and black plumes of smoke. The gray, dull walls and hallways of a Soviet-like society and mechanical people who are identical to the very robots who feed on their data. Silver surfing clocks that never move time and neon snakes in everyone's veins.
There will be shotgun blasts of dart flies and mosquito drones, billions of insect armies passing by like dark and evil roving clouds. The permanent flashing red lights and howls of sirens, pink chewing gum globes on the sidewalks, dirty blackened steps to the train, there's always a body on the tracks being dissected by medical examiners. White coats and glasses, they are all the same.
Your silent cocoon on the lake, your perch in a peach tree, perfect hair, angelic and more pale than a bowl made of chalk dust, slender neck, a peasant's necklace and the crucifix looks like it's older than rust, the quiet in your field before your war. You wait, you watch with your wicked, warm and wild eyes, you'll drink their blood, they have no idea what you really are.