The end.

It’s January 9, and the washing machine fills the house with the sound of deliberate finality.

A sense that perhaps all is not well.

Blue sky filters through a haze of melancholy and a desperation for understanding. The ocean’s stark contrast mixes with the sky like two paints that won’t dry. Dust motes dance with light that stretches past the window shade as the oven ticks away.

Humanity clamours, forgetting that it takes the colour of nature to scrub one’s heart of rust. Forgetting that connection is the root of existence.

This is where it begins.

Please meet me here.