The door out back cracks and blows inward, and the sky overhead darkens as lightning blasts across it. Voices from a distance: shouting, crying; their tones drenched in despair. Overhead, something flies and screeches. I cross the room. The walls shiver. Paint and drywall flakes. Cracks spiderweb the walls as chunks slam into the floor. And I sidle forward. The house collapses around me, and now I'm outside. In the storm. My arms itch. Silence. It hurts. Pus and blood and bile flow from the pores in my hands and arms. My skin stretches and snaps and dangles from muscle and fat and sinew. Somewhere, someone screams. Then silence. Thoughts bounce around my head, but they're fleeting: I can't latch onto one; I can't make sense of another—'all good children sing the choke to fall askance'; nothing makes sense. Ambling over the lawn and into the street, I focus on the horizon. Smoke billows. The ground roars. Around me, lawns and houses, streets and sidewalks crack and turn to chunks and dust. And they raise up and float away, merging with the clouds, which spin and darken, darken, darken. This is it: the end. Everything brought me to this moment. The universe stands still. Fragments of time splinter and bleed from my eyes. My stomach hurts. Head and temples pounding, pressure and tension pulling the back of my neck, where my skull and spine meet, I find a ziggurat of concrete left untouched and inch forward, ever forward. My head hurts. A hole splits my stomach. Despair fills it. But no, not despair; dread. Everything falls apart. Time splinters. My head. Hurts. Temples collapse. Where am I? What I have done? Nothing means anything as the clouds coalesce and spin, as the Fibonacci spiral overhead hardens and turns to dust. Head hurts. Spiral eyes splinter in despair. Time slows. Head spiderwebs the world. Dread. Where am I?