Fin du globe

The whole world is waiting for something. It’s never been plainer than today. It’s in the friction under my elbows, the screaming buzz of the traffic. Space is shrinking, it steals your breath away. The sun is achingly bright, cradled in a sky stretched to its limits; grey shows through, threatening to split the seams. I can’t see straight.

Did you ask for this? No, it is not mine. This is not what I ordered. Can we send it back?

I can taste the thunder juddering the path beneath my feet, dark and brittle and breaking apart between my teeth. Tree roots knotted and twisted wrench tarmac into white-striped islands. Blame blame blame, this lame game begins. It was your world and you fucked it up.

Come on, it’s time. It’s time to get soaked to the skin, to lose our names and our faces to the flood. I can’t be the only one to want it; blood all over, a kiss-and-gunpowder war, a battle to the death. And when, hundreds of years in the future when our children are less flesh than iron and steel they will ask us, why did you run?

And we will tell them that it was our fate; the Lost Ones, the Fallen Generation, in the days Earth lost and God forgot.