They say that the world is ending, so then why am I still in it? The sky is black with someone else’s rage, yet here I am, still sitting in my room, waiting for something to happen. It’s not that nothing is happening, it’s just that it’s not happening to me. It’s happening around me, and as I wait for the punch in the face of reality, I’ve come to realize: maybe it will never happen at all. The world will end, and I’ll still be suspending here, in my American amorality, with no big decisions, no sweeping finales, no crash, no boom, no bang. Or it will be far away. It will happen to other people. And after the world ends, I will still get up. I will still go to work. I will still eat my lunch. Then go home. Go to sleep. And wonder what all the fuss was about while other people’s worlds ended and mine just stayed the same.