It's dark.
I can hear explosions.
The longer you listen to them, the more they sound like huge drums.
Their uneven rhythm reminds me of a savage dance a mad man might find fit to perform on his mother's grave.
And the rain.
It has to be raining, of course.
The rain and the drums.
Creation and destruction.
I could never understand why a fire was possible under the rain.
Even from this basement, this rathole where I'm hiding I can smell fire -
burning tanks and cars,
burning wood and houses,
burning flesh.
Corpses.
The air is sweet with that smell.
It makes me think of juicy steaks and pork chops almost constantly.
Everything around me is nothingness.
It's not really happening, not really.
I'm sinking into this roaring blackness,
begging the Creator to either take me, or
let
this
all
end.

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