Tattered
The last lifestyle of our century included no animals, no vegetables, no begging for mercy. Just the scrabblerock existence of a dispersed population: shreds of humanity on three continents, communicating by sentient pollen that drifted along from blood wall to blood wall to the El Nino and the slightest vagaries of a planet on its last exhale.
I looked up from scraping fingernails along a cave wall and breathed out: The End. My bones already dust, my spine an inert thing, these standards playing in my head a dirge for a fallen Earth.
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Oh, apocalypse. How I love thee. Also the Being Very Dramatic.
A lovely day, lovely week ahead, shame I'm working eight days straight. Mama's got bills to pay, you know. But you gotta keep a good attitude. :-)
*
Oh, apocalypse. How I love thee. Also the Being Very Dramatic.
A lovely day, lovely week ahead, shame I'm working eight days straight. Mama's got bills to pay, you know. But you gotta keep a good attitude. :-)
Oooh, sentient pollen, I like that.
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