The end of the world is always the same; the day dawns downy with ghosts, red sun casting shadows of things that can no longer be seen. Every moment is pressed with meaning, significance, this is the last time this will happen, take in this detail. You won’t see it again.
You only notice in retrospect.
Cloying voices are at the edge of your hearing, cooing to you, comforting and cajoling at the same time. The blood pounds in your ears, soft as a sparrow’s wingbeat, drowning them out. Later, you may remember their words and realise their significance.
The light fades slowly on the last day, the day the world ends. Twilight is its own kingdom, the world shot day-for-night, colours and detail pin-sharp in the gloom. Sharp as needles, sharp as knives. The sun collapses into the horizon It flattens, distends, pours across the land. In its flare you are caught, at the end of days. Fluttered away, ragged, to whisper with the ghosts.