Nobody knows what they are for

The shopping centres turned into greenhouses, trapping light with façades of glass proving conducive to superficial tropical weather, sulking palm trees, even stars that looked grungy, feelings of self-deprecation that lingered like perfume after the weater has left the room, haunting the dressing tables, mirrors with their gilded corners and chipped wallpaper to rest on, the clothing racks. Cars converted to sofas. Nobody even knows what they are for, not when they realised being alone- being away from both people and plants- was a plague and these machines had since become useful only for suffocation or suicide. Metal went soft, as though it could feel the air changing. Finally it felt safe enough to put its guard down. Trees intertwined round traffic lights of all things, putting them to sleep. Trains whistled cradle songs through woodlands, this one sound for miles and miles unless you took into account the muted voices of small children trying to stroke big-eyed bambi or maybe a wolf, their feet heavy, dragging behind the rest in the hunt, itchy cloths around their necks that made them uniform, made them angry, some so angry they tore the legs off spiders. In the grander scheme of things, there had been two millennia and now, as though they have been admonished by someone or something not observable, not measurable, not even will a name to call, in rage or mockery, and without that, there was no way to make the scolding stop stinging. They have now become quiet.

Now it's worth the mess. What a puzzle.