A bright beam of fire rains from the heavens, blinking in light. It is a meteor, twirling through space, ever swirling through the cosmic void of the loneliness of matter. I know the meteor. It is heavy with sadness. So heavy. And then it falls, crashing in catastrophic suicide. The porous rock fumes in despair, catapulting a flying fume of grit into the morning air. The dusty film webs the earth, obscuring the sun. Run! You fool, run where you will. Footsteps echo in the distance, but there is nowhere to run. Cry. Cry for your world. Do you see this? Do you see the trees? Do you see the tiger, or the flower? The lion, or the leaf? Do you see this creation, wiped from the face of existence? And yet it was no war that did this: no grand plan. It was a piece of rock, a bit of spacedust thrown astray by some cosmic housecleaner. The universe has stepped on us like an ant, and in an instant all hope has faded. A chill envelopes the Earth. There is no life left for us. Where will we go, when all the Earth has grown cold?