If there is breathable air, take a deep breath, a healing breath. Let your apocalypse in. The sooner you acclimate to your apocalypse, the sooner the Sisyphean ball rolls. While your apocalypse has every intent on ripping you limb from limb, it is more accurately a subtle reshaping, a trickle of taking away, the limb is rarely a limb.

Remember, your apocalypse is not tailor-made for you, in that, you yourself, by name, date, age, time, are one of an uncountable many that will meet their demise by way of your apocalypse. But, it’s best for you, as it has been best for your understanding of things, to frame your apocalypse around you. After all, you are the maker of your apocalypse, you set the parameters by simply acknowledging it. This is an act of knowing, living with the breaker of things known, of walls you yourself have built up that will inevitably tumble down in crumbles and torrents, in loose shakes and great waves. Your apocalypse has no need to acknowledge you.

And yet, here is your apocalypse, svelt and bloated, heaving and still, ready to wrap its coarse hands around you and squeeze. And here are you, standing in a living room fully clothed trying to summon a lost thought, in a bathroom, naked, staring at the way the fat pools in an undesirable way above the hip, on a train, bowing your head, gliding your thumb over a glass screen. And here is your apocalypse, waiting, everywhere at once, around every corner begging you to look up.