When the world ends, I think we all think, on some level, we end. That’s not the case. The world ended. The sky fell. Reality, as science and progress had taught us to know it, was over. And yet, through the changes, we persisted. Something of me, of the man I was, lives on, even if in dreams. I still dream, you know, of life before. I suppose when a country collapses, the people feel the same way, or when a marriage dissolves, the children are left, a testament to a broken world.
And here you are, a new world, forming like a scab over the wound left by the old. I suppose my world was nothing more than that too to whatever unknown thing was before. Here’s a world of blue and green. I suppose I shall get used to blue skies. It is not an unpleasant color for heaven. I have seen worse.
Tale Told 