SUNDAY THE END OF DAYS

It's always the same. The chamber, the backpain. My skin is smooth, but it'll wear off.
I just put out the last ciggarette, just emptied the ashtray. Just checked in with the rest of the world one last time.
They never check on me, but I know they're there.
Like im there. Not much longer now.
They never go gentle into that good night. I can hear them next chamber over, we're never alone, not really.
I usually hear death. It's not how you'd think. The dead don't scream. They beg and they argue and they moan, but the wailing is for the living.
The living on the brink of another end. They wail in their sleep, wail to each other, in fear, in pain, out of love, out of neccessity, out of pure habit.
The silent are my favorites, but they tend to be unpredictable, so you always have to be on guard. Any moment they may slam or thud. Or whisper.
I hate the whisperers most of all.
The sound of a body hitting the ground.
That's selfsih. Unfair. It disturbes me, most impportantly. Some of us are going gentle.
I like to hear their TVs, but not music, too fake. And not loud enough so I can understand the words. I just like to think that right now, somwhere, there are radio stations and tv networks and people who keep all those things running.
My backpain is getting worse, but we used up all the pills. And its hot. Its so hot, almost distastefully hot, on-the-nose hot, but the outside air makes me choke and its not time yet. I don't want to make a scene.
The final hour. The clock is at zero.
The day of. The day after. The dawn of.
How we obssesed over those empty phrases. How much money we made. The mouth watering at all the endless possibilities of the ultimate ending, we basically lived it all.
The one single universal, selfish, almost perverse but ultimately human, communal fantasy - that we'd all go out togheter.
Well, the happening is happening, again, and it turns out we were right to pray for a spectacle.
Because this is boring.


The clock has hit zero. The final hour is here. We're not freezing, or melting, or drowning. I don't see a ball of fire coming at us in the sky. To be fair, there isn't much of a sky either. We just are and soon we won't be. The generational fear of missing out wasn't strong enough, or maybe it was never there at all. The fantasy of the fantasy was a lie. Maybe you knew all along. I didn't. Maybe some other people, some new people, will wake up in our beds tomorrow. Maybe they'll look like us. Maybe they won't. Maybe they'll take over our lives and maybe they'll go to their chamber one night with their last ciggarette and throbbing back pain. Maybe someone will hold their hand then, and the wailing will stop, and the conclusions would come naturally. I wish they do.
I want that for us.
This is Sunday and I love you.
Now im gonna go crack a window and let some air in. It's way too hot in here.