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notes on the apocalypse

The story begins in the suburbs of hell, under a few old billboards. The sky darkens, and it begins to snow. I see the glow reflected in her eyes, trace the light over the curves of her body. The world races by, and no one notices.

Meanwhile, a young woman ascends the razors' edge. She is marked with reds and blues, and with irreverence. The sharpness passes through to the other side, eight times. Miles away, and yet so close, others watch and wait.

The straight lines become vertical curves, the wind becomes cold. Shades of brown fade to dark green, then blur and disappear behind. There are two kinds of limits, one real and one imagined, both so poorly understood. Hope fades, then revives. It is only the rebellion that matters.