Scene: A room.

To be more precise I'm in the foyer of the home of my parents back in the Garden State.

I'm staring in a mirror, stroking my beard and giving a confession all Catholic-like. You know "Forgive me father for I have sinned it has been like forever since I confessed but I jerked off twice the other day. But seriously folks..." Startlingly I am actually confessing things which would be considered "sins" by any of the major Western organized religions and expressing regret regarding my actions. By the time I began reciting The Act of Contrition as part of my court-approved parole maribou, the child-bride of Jaybird, came up behind me.

"Will you SHUT UP ALREADY? Jeez. she shouts then rolls her eyes before going back into the den to read her book. Not wanting me to have the last word she's standing in the doorway again "I'm trying to READ here!" flapping her arms in an exasperated fashion which is quintessentially maribou.

Exit stage left. Somewhen in the middle of the night the sky is lacking stars and clouds which would obscure those clouds. I know that I can't blame this on light pollution which disturbs my hind brain. A night without stars? While I'm wandering around the old neighborhood I get a clear shot of the eastern horizon where a red, shattered moon is rising. Whatever happened to our celestial neighbor was extraordinarly violent leaving it a spherical jumble of scorched regolith, magma and chaotic terrain. Fortunately this catastrophe wasn't powerful enough to sunder all the pieces and send them crashing towards my homeworld.

A little further and I'm at the Jersey shore. Miniature golf, curly fries and shitloads of video games from the eighties ringing out in a cacophanous chorus of tinny Japanese midi music. I have a vision of several World War II fighter planes zooming along the shore only a few yards, they're like meters in the rest of the world (and the british use yards for beer), above the whitecaps. One of the planes breaks formation heading inland over the Pine Barrens. Lumbering through the most precious land of New Jersey is a gigantic elephant. Suddenly the plane's engine gives out sending it spiralling into the ghost towns, stunted pine trees, rusty creeks and bogs of iron and cranberries. The tip of its wing grazes the temple of the ponderous pachyderm unleasing a gout of dark blood onto the thirsty sandy soil. When the vision ends I'm standing on the boardwalk looking out over a darkened beach, the shattered moon's corpse is rising higher in the sky and tears are rising from the corners of my eyes in mourning for the gentle behemoth.

Now I'm sleepwalking in my dream. How do you like them apples? The tides are exceedingly vigorous and violent. At best I can guess whatever happened to the moon gave it more mass increasing the gravitational field which begat ten foot waves along the Atlantic seaboard. Unlike prior dreams from my youth the ocean didn't frighten me. No menace of tsunamis nor drowning, simply walking into the waves knowing that the ocean can smell fear and I can only die if it knows I am afraid of anything not just its depths. Thirty feet into the water there's a parting of the waters. Wagging fish tails are ridiculously poking out of the water while horseshoe crabs scuttle across this dry domain for the comfort and cover in the water. This seems like a good idea to me and when I walk through the wall of water I'm transported to downtown New York City.

Tom Petty's "American Girl" is loudly playing from every storefront, bar and apartment. The streets are crowded with the last minute shoppers of armageddon. Everything is painted with red, orange and yellow light forming a shell for the stark fluorescent blue interiors of the businesses that make everyone blink and squint in pain as their eyes adjust to reality. I'm no longer alone but I don't know or remember my companions. It's a certainty that these people aren't from waking life.

We go into a bar that has a huge chute coming down through the ceiling leaving me to imagine it passing through numerous dilapidated apartments full of grumpy tenants cursing under their breath while snoring away the last night in blissful ignorance if it weren't for the clunking sounds from the tin chute that's fed from God knows where. The manna from heaven, free to all patrons, are thick steaks that make me wonder if someone butchered the elephant and distributed his meat for one and all to feed the damned attending one last bacchanal (yes that's the correct spelling even though it looks funny dont it). Everyone is fortunate because this tin plated cornucopia eventually bestows plastic bottles of name-brand ketchup, potatoes of various cuts and Scooter Pies. Tomorrow we dine in hell and no one has reservations nor regrets about the circumstances of each particular damnation.

Outside the crowds have vanished from the streets and the low roar of traffic, machines and the general thudding pulse of NYC has finally given out in a coronary. Within minutes the smog and urine humidity is gone and fresh air begins encroaching upon a forgotten land for the first time in centuries. Across the street there's an antique shop. The proprietor is switching off the lights, locking the glass cases and grabbing his mighty hook to draw down the iron curtain even though there would never again be any looters or opportunistic thieves bearing heavy stones or cinder blocks. One must keep up appearances. He has a thick policeman's mustache that would do Freddie Mercury proud along with wavy but greasy salt and pepper hair combed back over his scalp. I'm reminded of a college professor when I see the leather patches sewn upon his gray sweater. With some time to spare I cross over to see if I can buy anything off him since money is no longer an object. While we're talking in the doorway his two yorkies escape and run down the street much to his despair.

For all I know I am the last human being in the city. The last living thing in the city. A once great living beast that sweated and farted with humanity now lay still in anticipation of the end of the world. Since the moon's mass had increased, maybe a black hole smacked into the moon taking one for the gipper so what passes for life can enjoy a final few minutes until the inevitable sneaks up and breaks their collective necks. That black hole is why the moon didn't scatter across the skies and drown the world in the thick clouds of nuclear winter. That black hole is holding everything together.

I jump at the sound of "I Wanna Be Sedated" blaring from high above me. As it echoes through the emptied streets and avenues of the former capital of human culture I don't spy any signs of light or life. One last hurrah for my sake and I'm not even worth it. Still I have hope because I know the ocean will soon hiss over the abandoned asphalt sending parked Pontiacs floating past famous landmarks until the waters of the Atlantic and the Hudson meet at sixth street, shaking hands and mingling waters before deciding to drown the skyscrapers.

On my walk back to Newark where I parked my car I start singing "Twenty, twenty, twenty four hours ago I want euthanasia. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go home. I want euthanasia" to myself. I'm glad that I parked in Newark because it'd be above the flood line and tomorrow I have to go to work. Gotta go to work even if it means I'm going to be late again.