tesla | (no subject)

The world will end on a night like this, when dusk lasts forever and the moon is chased heavenward by a bright star that robs it of its crescent dreams. An unaccountable hour will arrive and all the cars and the drivers will simply stop. The river of traffic that pours along the freeway will finally halt, its mindless roar stilled for the first time in memory.

Lithe, leathery fellows with long arms and bent knees will crawl from the alleys and feast on Christmas lights, lawn chairs, and soda bottles. They have been watching you for years, reading over your shoulder, amazed that you don't notice them and shoo them out of your house. But they will wait to eat your computer until you're gone for good; it's part of the Agreement, and they take these matters very seriously.

But eventually they must starve; there is only so much plastic in the world, and no people here to make more. Someday the last few will gather together to reminisce about those glorious first days after the world died.

Of course it isn't dead, not really. It's just dormant, like a dried-out bean that nevertheless sprouts when you toss it in the mud. It will stay this way for decades and centuries until some force quickens it. Then the weeds will grow up again from the ground, and after the weeds the vines and the trees, and they will do the terrible, miraculous work of clearing away all this concrete and rebar and stucco. Parking lots will turn back into praries; where skyscrapers stood, trees will blot out the sky.

Don't look so surprised; it's happened before. It will happen again.