A story is starting as the world is ending. How unfair. Chaos around and yet no one there to hear it. By bits and pieces, it will all be recollected and one day understood again. The soil trace itself. That will be one day dry, beautiful, and with no wind in sight. No one will even suggest a different course of action. Everything must stop, spectacularly, everything must end.
The Mayans were right. And life shall continue to the next predicted end. We do not want to cease. Off we go. And I mean it. As I too spectacularly shall cease. Come to an end. Without wind. Spectacularly.
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