Some ways out and closing, across the arc of horizon a bulging anvil of black thunderclouds erupt and seethe like night made corporeal or all-deleting miasma spewed from the void's cauldron and I stand in wait watching it crash closer, churning the vast wasteland into revolted particulate adding unto itself, feeding and enlarging as if for brood, faster and louder roaring an ancient proclamation of arriving at the end, stampeding all oblivious in its destruction, engorged in self-perpetuation, now nearly upon me, blindly ravishing the sole and still witness to its coming from some unspeakable unmeasured abyss to here, to heed, its empty heralding signifying nothing save Nothing, not even to me, its casualty, its dirt, its supplicant.
