‘Remember, this is the third decade of the Apocalypse’
The taxi window gave away the hard labor of the sidewalk, the combined weight of hundreds of wingless shells it carried from end to end, supported by foam crates loaned from the only polystyrene storehouse in the south end of the city.
On the left side of the road, commercial billboards dotted the upper line of sight, objects and faces like low-lying fruits.
Before the next traffic light, he gestured to the driver, now feeling anxious, after seeing what’s left of the streets, ‘Please say, I promise.’ He understood his own words, a self-affliction of blank destiny. He promised himself a new year without eggs, without objects and sidewalks, without billboards, and faces.
Then came an epiphany just when he made the driver say, ‘I promise’. The derelict hands of the future reached out to him. That was how he recalled spending the last hour before the new year. He knew the beast. Its prolonged consumption of the ages of the world was crying out for rescue.
But any driver he sought would succumb to kindness, thinking it wasn’t his time yet. Any driver he found knew his place.
He woke up to another new year. A promise was broken by another soul.
He scribbled a note on his diary; his eyes bloodshot from the morning light flooding his room overlooking the eastern shore:
‘Welcome to the third decade of the apocalypse!’