The streets are quiet except for an occasional swoosh. We keep going, even when we know it's too late. Bloody, we drag the half of ourselves that doesn't work with the half that does, spinning in confused circles, trying to make it to that one last dentist appointment, pick up the ground beef for dinner.
The wind used to have time for us, when we looked farther to look up and the world was at peace. Now it runs like we do, going nowhere, trying to settle affairs, and pays us no attention. The rain stops and starts in crocodile tears and the earth shakes, not the gentle quivers we were used to. We have become superfluous. Something else is going on, above and below and outside our realm of perception.
Outside, the air is warm, but a lulling warm, an offhand offer of tranquilizers to make the end come easier. No one is listening. |
