I dreamt the world would come to an end.

And at the appointed hour, as the clock struck, I went outside. No asteroid struck. No plane fell. Fate did not clap its hand.

The streets, the houses, they were all still there. The bright yellow orb still hung in its ceiling of blue. But nothing moved. No car stirred. The freeways were still. The birds even kept to themselves in the trees, not daring to expend the energy, lest they disturb the new quiet order.

I came home, and sat in the quiet house. The air hung still, as if time itself had stopped moving. And yet it did not. Spring ticked into summer. Summer became fall. The footfall of summer had come, the evidence was there - camping gear in the hall, clothes still unpacked. Even spring remained, my snowshoes still by the door.

But nothing moved. We are still trapped in this, the end of the world. And try, try as we might, like a spider’s web, the greater we struggle, the longer we remain here, where the world came to an end.