Universes are fragile, friable things, and ours was supposed to be doomed for quite some time ago. Doomed, tragic, lovely, it’s what brought us that bounty of tourists, here to see everything go kerblooey-kapow-KAZAP.
This is just one of those stories – a symptom, if you will, of the larger, wider, more utlimately-fatal malaises wandering yon and hither.
Now, being on a duly-recognized eve of destruction, that’s one thing. Everyone can throw a big party if they’d like. Or weep, perhaps. It’s all good; we’re all gonna die anyway, right?
It’s true that the first step to being really, really doomed is simply believing that you’re doomed.
And the second step is the easy shift from believing into being.
So now you’re doomed. Great! All you need to do is wait for the end!
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
“Mommy, when is the Doom coming?”
“Soon. Soon.”
“Hopefully soon.”
(Dear Doom:
Please visit, and this time, please stay longer, would you?)
signed,
everyone)
