In case you were wondering, the world actually ended last year, and we are now in those last remaining flashes of light, the last gasps of air, the few flickers of vision before it all goes black. Throes. Spasms. Contortions. It is an illusion, like the chicken's head on the ground, detached by the farmer's axe, watching her own body run around the yard for a few more laps, wondering "What...is...that?" before the last spills of life blood drain from her neck. A painless, final, hallucinatory reality.
And all of these pieces fit to prove it: the deer on its hind legs, reaching for leaves, its antlers too new to fall off, stretching over the wire fence, the neon green women running, a coyote in the middle of their pack, dazed but unafraid, accustomed to the sounds of Nike Plus.
Those beings, now: An order.
The Deer eats the Leaves,
the Coyote stalks the Deer,
the Neon Pack consumes it all:
Everything in its path.
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