Waiting For The End Of The World

Above the white noise of the fan you can hear the rumble of thunder approaching.

The greens and purples, reds and whites of the garden take on a richer hue – all overlaid with a dark gravity which says more powerfully than sound that the storm is coming, is coming, is close.

I savour the taste and juiciness of a piece of charcoaled steak in my mouth; chewing slowly, the ultimate act of one animal enveloping another. My soul treasures the textures and seems to know that these days, too, will pass. Even as I add the lightly-boiled flesh of a plant person to my ingestion, I am overwhelmed with joy at the brevity of days, and the impermanence of this plane.

The air outside is gravid, now: the storm is nigh upon us. First a raindrop, then another, spatters the terracotta tiles on the patio of my temporary empire. Here, here is the meat of other and self, ever evolving into One Thing. Here, too, is the terrible Sign and the Portent. Here where I sit, chewing, waiting for the End of the World.