for the
end of
the world

The setting: seven days now hot and humid, breathing underwater. Who would have thought winter a fond memory, dragging selves from one corner to another, postures uniformly one inch shorter.

Glance up from your misery to a black horizon, thickening. Dash, littering skin and bones behind, towards you know exactly where. Upon arrival, tie your sneakers one last time against the trunk, good and tight, and then climb, and then climb, and then face the sky.

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