Now Taking Reservations for the Apocalypse

It never rains here anymore. Slot machines of clouds never pay off. We're too close to the end of the world. You and I. Me and them. Strange friends I dream about when there's an army of me all trying to assassinate the original.

She's uninterested. Busies herself inspecting the horns she imagines must be hidden under too much hair. Love by invitation only. Or tickets bought in advance.

Like all art it's pretentious. And caters to those who least understand it. Like all forms of expression it's meant to be sold to the highest bidder.

But not until we're dead.