She said "the world's about to end and the pigs are about to die!"
Every second ticking is a ticking time bomb of hours and weeks waiting to happen.
Rapture, says the Bible, happens when you least expect it.
Lightning, followed by thunder, the skies parted, the hues, greyer.
People driving around and drinking tequila in high noon fever means somewhere, it's happy hour.
I feel the raindrops falling from a storm about to drizzle. I hear the footsteps of a thousand armoured caddies alternating with my own pulse.
I am repulsed by the mere sight of cotton candies mauled holy by splintered sticks.
And if it's summer, I beg to differ, but this skin refuses to turn brick.
The whole point of the Rapture, a TV evangelist said, is to repent and be forgiven, otherwise you're dead.
But my whole world is about to die, and my impulses are about to end.
I'm falling apart because I'm hardly alive, and I'm not alive if I refuse to get high.
If I stay sane, I'm insane, because I don't live their lives.
If I don't live vicariously, I'm precariously gambling with expectations.
If I don't meet them, I can keep them, but I can't even reason.
And if I don't reason, I'm afraid, the whole world will end anyway.
Cars will stop moving.
Dogs will stop breathing.
My name will be forgotten. My mind is rendered useless.
But what's in a name anyway?
And why do we corrupt ourselves?