The world burns. The sun stalks.
Can life be sustained off a windowsill’s moisture, a lead pipe’s sweat? Someone spills the orange juice we’ve been rationing. It spread more sunshine across the room. We splintered our tongues lapping it off the wooden floor.
In the white glow of night, a man bursts in and steals thirty-three ounces of water.
I should have shot him, we’re all going to die anyway this way.
As want drips into need, it’s a good news bad news sort of thing. My once optimistic roommates have long since soured to distress. They see what I’ve always seen. Contentment? It’s all a matter of degrees. The heat. The thirst. The end of the world.
Only one thing can save us so I imagine being between cool, white sheets. And pretending that outside snow is falling, falling, falling like sugar. It’s piling up to hills, mountains. While the fever breaks, there’s a new Ice Age upon us and I remember a wise, old saying.