There were water droplets at first: a massive flood that swallowed thousands in the fury of a storm. I blinked to get away, and when I opened my eyes there was galactic armageddon so that the world could fold into itself with the force of gravity. The stars flicked away by the tail of this great emptiness, all light flickered and failed. No, again I must blink, and so then I saw a man whose brain, blood, and skull soaked out of his helm, the helm that held his head together. Leave now -- I'll shake and writhe on the floor in the storm again -- so the scene again shifts to the twilight of another cosmology. Swine became men in this vision, and the people had to wear masks in the streets. I saw these masks before when the missiles launched. Why had the missiles launched? Did the angels come down again from their smooth solar ships? When I woke up, I saw myself and him alone in the bushes and trees. A lioness glared down from above. In another, a man all alone in the blue sea; I think his phone was dead. Most recently I saw a small grave; as for the tears that soon filled the hole in the ground, there were water droplets at first. And like a great eight-dimensional puzzle, these apocalypses twist and converge into one another, so that the death of one world may be the harbinger of death for all others.
These lives and many more I have lived between each breath. The apocalypse comes and goes like an ocean, and when the waves knock me down and I lie paralyzed I am free to dream. Strength in numbers, and three will become one. The protectors of the world. Brown, yellow, black. Brown, yellow, black. Brown, yellow, black.