Strange omens rune the land. A long line, orderly and silent, forms at the P.T.A. thrift storefront before dawn. Across the street observant passersby, puzzled, attempt to augur motive and purpose. The graveled auto repair shop parking lot, always crowded, is strangely empty. Gray daybreak, Causality in question, we can only wonder at the end of days and signs that might manifest beast on a leash, moped riders, and sleepy-eyed crowds of the resurrected. Heated breath and steam fog coffeehouse windows. Conversation speculatively muted, flows in a sibilant hiss of nervous words. Now I’m told it’s $3.00 Bag Day at the P.T.A; late arrivals appear in the waiting room car keys in hand. Banality inevitably marks apocalypse.
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