Soon, he'd look out and be blinded by the last thing he'd ever, or anyone, really, see. He admired the sky, the blue, the brightness, the way it felt to drink it all in and know that it was there. He'd always taken it for granted, or, at worst, not appreciated it. Because it's there for you, he thought. Because it is. And now, soon, it won't be. If only every last moment could be known, could be counted on. He wanted to keep his eyes open so that they would be blasted and fried and burned from his sockets, because he wanted to remember the world like this. Because after this, the world would not be the world any more. The pieces that would be missing would be unable to return and the feelings of what it was like to live in the world that he had taken as his would never return. At least he knew it this time. At least they all did. At least they had some closure, to the end of the world, if there is such a thing. He could hear the sirens rise in the distance, the TV droning on about safety drills, the animals screaming outside and he was overcome with a strange calm. He held his hands, sweating, on his lap. He sighed. A hotel room alone in the middle of nowhere. Not really the place to witness the end of all things. But we don't get to pick the endings. And sometimes, we don't get to pick the beginnings, either. Whistling. Boom. Smash. Crash. Fucking hell. It's here. He just won't have to worry about it, any more. Any of it. He's ash on the wall of a place no one wanted to ever live in.

Photo - S
Words - S