In an alternate reality far away there is a gang of roving brutes with chains and all manner of wickedness at their disposal. There is a soundtrack. I’d rather not describe it. There is sand everywhere. Brick and mortar survives, but little else. Empty streets with blood, broken bottles and dead balloons. The party is over. All that remains are the roving brutes. It is all very familiar in that sense.

A voice overhead passes through the air. This spirit of the air hurls down fire and rocks. Everyone is already gone, but the crumbling buildings and cracked asphalt streets endure further, brutally. More cracks. More crumble. Lightning rods strike trees. They catch fire. It would be terrifying if there was anyone left to witness it. This world is a barren, cold, place.

There is a thunder-like, evil, vibration emanating from the dead earth. In the charred, sand duned bespeckled, horizon approaches a gang of brutes. Perhaps the last in existence. The voice in the sky and the thunder draws near. It is the sound of fun at your expense. Death. Death riding – this is my delusion so we may speculate how death can take multiple forms – on iron machinery that snarls and tears apart the molecules of the atmosphere. More lightning rods and boulders; no longer rocks, but boulders & glacial stones.

From where I stand it is clear there is no escape. I spontaneously combust into another reality.