The sky was filled with black smoke.
The power poles were all on a lean.
It was a bright cold day in April. The clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith nuzzled his chin into his breast. He did this as an effort to escape the vile wind. He slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions. Winston wasn’t quick enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
The sky was filled with black smoke, and the power poles were all on a lean. The two children walked down the rugged road as they observed the old, rusted, crashed car on the dying grass.