by Jesse Cameron Alick, photo by Ando Nesia

When the end of the world comes, it won’t matter who you are or what you’ve been. All your actions, good or bad, cracked like an egg on the sidewalk of eternity. How does it feel? To know you, born from nothing, are nothing, will return to nothing? All the people you knew will be dust. All the pictures you take, will be burned. All mistakes are unmade. All pain erased. In the end it won’t matter if you were a doctor – what needs I doctors at the end of time. An artist – what needs I reflections in the face of the void? A homeless man – what needs I the destitute – when all are destitute at the end of the world? All things, all places, that are and were and could be, cracked like an egg. And that center portion, that little dot of red in the midst of yellow? The gods will pay no more attention to it than you do, when you have your morning omlette.