Last night I dreamed of a stunning end of the world. Nature resumed her rights, and the land promised to be transformed into a sea of glowing embers. Two words banged in my head: VICI DIES: the day we are defeated . It was inevitable, and probably the last sentence written on the Grand Roll. Some of us gathered in the courtyard of the school, aware of the impending chaos, others continued their lives without the shadow of a thrill, after all, since the world was coming to an end, they seemed futile to stop and smell the best horror the moment. I was looking
Mom and Dad to die with them. That was what I had better do, since the bitumen, losing its thickness became transparent and showed that plumes of lava eager for fresh air, ready to engulf the world of the living.
Dad was not there. And I knew I would never see him again.
Mom and Dad to die with them. That was what I had better do, since the bitumen, losing its thickness became transparent and showed that plumes of lava eager for fresh air, ready to engulf the world of the living.
Dad was not there. And I knew I would never see him again.
