Apocalypse, if you please.

Trying not to close my eyes so soon.
There's a cold breeze streaming from the vents that inscribe the tall and gritty brick walls that imprison me.
As depressing as a bucket filled to the top with carcasses of fish, those dead eyes gazing blankly at the brink of extinction.
The walls are cracking, the lightning shaped dents expanding at a pace the naked eye can not read.
Life, as we know it, is ebbing away from every bare inch of ground under my cold feet.
Gritty old kettles rattle in the lonely shed, clammy nuggets of snow coat the old wooden shed door as it hails as it's never hailed before.
Green and yellow are things of the past, monochromed shades of brown and grey are all I can see.
The ground now quakes, impending surges of a strange aura of dread envelops the surroundings.
What is left of the sun, is a tiny dot of brilliant white light somewhere beyond the endless horizons of empty space.
Now I stand inside the dingy, dully lit toolshed with a pickaxe in my bare arms.
All love is lost. I am the last man standing. A miniscule fibre of flesh on my lower arm I scrape with the pickaxe.
I am the last man standing.
The last.
'Tis too cold.
As I watch the depressing grey skies signal the marching drum beat of impending doom, as I watch our mighty earth being swallowed up by the throats of an unknown force that is hell bent upon destroying Infinity,

I pick up the pickaxe.
And I bring it down upon my skull.
Goodbye Earth.




And THAT is how I imagine the End Of The World to be.

Cheers, folks.