“Turn around!” they begged him, as he strode slowly towards the desert sun, but he knew enough of Lot and of Orpheus, that it would only bring them ruin if he did. So heavy was his heart, that he glanced back with melancholy love, and thus the fair city of San Francisco turned to salt. He kept on walking into that desert sun, a heavy heart keeping him anchored to calls of vultures naysaying his poor sense of direction…
(Honestly good riddance to both. I have never seen more narcissists in my life than I have in SF.)