Chapter 1.

Even the surface of the moon shivered at the chills offered by the night-burning heaven, canopied by other celestial bodies and dying stars. Yes these makers of constellations were becoming buried in the void, the very tapestry that they helped decorate, and to think that their end was much closer than humanity had speculated. Time was not of the essence unless it posed an immediate threat to mankind. The line must be drawn in order to separate imminent danger from that which can consume millions of lives in a second. Supernova showers were to fall upon the shoulders of sinners and worshippers alike, yet there was no sacred protection, no scientific consolation, no heaven left to believe in. No judge with jury to separate good and evil, because if a human’s skull were to be anchored to chains with each end tied to a truck, it would tear clean to the spine. Fortunately, all the temples in the world had been reduced to rubble and buildings not set apart for civic or practical use like gentlemen’s clubs, were much more rare than diamonds. It was these congregations that had heeded the end times but the same ones who proclaimed the devouring by jaguar were ostracized for their faulty predictions of the past, why would now be any different? 

The Council of 200 was dead set on not sharing the same fate. For such men, faith was no obstacle. 

For faith had indeed promised a furtive fate that was met with the smiting reserved for the truest of sinners, but unleashed upon the humblest and most faithful. The tilling fields of the world cultivated warriors in the midst of global conflict and the rains of acid dotted the leaves that shaded the last tribes cut off from industrialization. These were the more authentic remnants of societal disease. It would be quaint to say that they held their own and that humanity clasped its own hands in prayer before fighting the wrath of God, but at the same time it would also be ridiculous and trivial. What men call humanity is pretentious and is further blurring the line between the single-celled common ancestor, the ape, the savage, and the “man”. The man who pulls egg whites out of the fridge and eats them ever so wearily in front of the television with his back turned against the sun leaping into his living room through a nearby window and expanding ever so slowly millions of miles away. He sees the light but only knows it is time to get into his crappy car and turn on the radio that momentarily distracts him from the reality that is a job that pays too little, and would only serve as a laughing stock to the version of himself conjured up by an innocent mind, before it was convinced it had to make a “living”. One that is not questioned can only raped by whatever corporation owned by a corporation owned by a corporation owned by a cooperation who received an extra bonus of however many billion dollars earned by the hard-working miserable that make up any given country on the planet. Not to mention the millions of unspeakable acts given by interns who just turned eighteen, and received by crevasse skinned dusty sacks of well-fed meat that come way too early. Someone must keep the heirs of conglomerate thrones on their feet--alert for whatever blessing they might receive next, the bow mustn't be to tight, the wrapping not to difficult to remove for failing joints on their veiny, shaking, hands. Careful, they’ll use boxcutters if they have too. They ruin couple after couple once the bachelor finds that his maiden, for a corner in time, worshiped the unbuckled monstrosities of the richest oil barons in the world and not only was he powerless against this, she willingly accepted a rape that was thinly veiled by a bribe. Caressing the old men ever so gently. 

The baron's sheets covered with the blood of virgins desecrated beyond their own imaginations. So many girls loved to death by their fathers have had their inner bodies hopelessly ruined on and off of the sandalwood bedframe, tricked into sex with a lavish meal and the promise of a high paying position, only mocked as prostitutes forever after. No corner office, whores need no desk. Yes, and the financial royal families of the world with hidden last names experiment with however many drugs it takes to spark a new sensation, however many lives it had taken. Anyone who ever believed that a drug-lord was the richest man in the world at any point is a fool, these were merely providers. At first glance all the narcotics being produced may have seemed like just enough to windup the addict across the way or to crush a household living under the poverty line, but do not be fooled, most was used just to keep an exclusive groups of private jet barely functioning. Sleep may be the cousin of death but men in silk shirts and new product were a match made in heaven. This new one has not the effect of an Eight-Ball, an ounce of Black Tar Heroin or a full sheet of LSD enjoyed by the masses, “tormented” artists, and proxy-kings alike. It was the closest thing to the feeling of murder without getting caught, your first slice of cake, the taste of bedding your crush and of blood on your lips.

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Here is not there and there is not here.

You are stuck in your cubicle after crashing into a single mom with an already trashed SUV, ready to suck your insurance dry, as if your job didn’t already enter your soul with an eternal enema. There are these worries which plague whatever is left of the mind of the common man. Yes, yes, what a life indeed! Happy to be at service. Only happy at your funeral service. Was this the mark of man? Who’s to say? Happy to be of service. And what kind of question is that when your boss is still telling you off even after the crash with Celia Ann (Age: 41, Divorced, Children 2 (Custody on Mondays-Thursdays), Occupation: Receptionist/Nurse at Sunny Smiles Dental located on N 8348924789184982289143rd St.)? 

The Fall of Man…

Of this “historical event” I remember almost nothing. All I see is the failures of those who have killed God, and I, the collective human conscience cannot fathom how it was not even the wrath of the divine but of the greed and the ever hungering id that urges you to rip the skin off your boss’ face, which is still flapping about. You can see it reddening by the second at your lack of response to follow up your sorry excuse to be late. He yells at you like a child yet the black waters in which the Earth floats grow angrier and evermore entropic. Boiling over like the libido of a priest, imminent like the tantrum of a cosmic baby. The brightest light flashing is more beautiful than the declining arpeggio of your favorite composition, and then nothing, then nothing again. 

Beautiful children, sleep through the night.

God could not macerate thee 

More wonderfully.

“Then I saw that all toil and all skill in work come from a man’s envy of his neighbor. This also is vanity and a striving after wind”

--Ecclesiastes 4:4

Gray snow and white buildings lined the skyline as the city began to awake from a conditional slumber. There was nothing good or bad about the change from rich to poor, spring to winter or any considerable change. Whether or not the fry-cook got a dollar raise because of the rise of the current value of any widely accepted currency made no difference. Whether or not the single mother of three was evicted in November or June, her children still starved just as much on sizzling streets just as they would on freezing ones after a homeless lunatic had chased the family away from his oil drum fire with the rustiest knife he could find. 

Work on the corner was scarce for a middle aged woman in a body that bore three sons.

The slums like cavities lined every fourth or fifth block of an otherwise pristine metropolis challenging the perpetual overcast and clouds swirling to no apparent center. They had no concentration and would end abruptly--both the meteorological patterns and the residencies of the destitute. They ended on streets like they did not exist a block away from the luxury shops reeking of perfume whose scent resembled no flower that was still alive. The clouds darkened and whitened like chessboards some days with scorching heat at noon and roaring storms by dinnertime. Only chills were felt in the air and the cold offered no sanctuary to even those who were lucky enough to have some form of heat to help them forget that their skin was blistering more every second in the arid weather. This was of no concern to X, a man that lived to serve any faceless mogul that offered an above livable wage. He had originally trained to be a doctor but because of a simple lack of connections and the number of deaths decreasing, work was rare. It was as if the masses had forgotten illness and all of its origins. People still got sick, sure, but less complained and without fail they had gone back to work less than twelve hours after the first notice of whatever ailment would have normally cost them an eye and a leg to resolve before a gradual change that took place over the course of an odd number of years.