The world was ending—nuclear holocaust seems to fit the bill. Everything played in repeat - the people unwilling to think I was spouting anything other than psychotic chatter—and so, I watched as skin and flesh and blood melted and boiled and washed away, in slow procession and fruition, each time denied and each time realized.
Before I woke, there was someone—a pretty thing, some sylph—to whom I was leaning into, briefly shaded from the nuclear shadow. My chin rested on her chest—not the obverse—something comforting, a foetal position of respite.
I wish I could remember her face...but I can't.
