One morning, we woke up to find that our breathing had become shallow. The light of the sun was diluted through the window, a reluctant orange lost in a grey haze. We discovered in this moment that the silence was so great our world must be dying. The first of the death rattles sounded: the cars were turned off but for some men in denial. They were falling asleep in their seats. The children no longer sounded like angels. Mothers crept back into their beds and ignored the infants. The death rattles continued, as men wept and found their once prized possessions no longer meant strength or virility or pride. “What’s happened to us?” some thought. Has God forgotten us? Others said the nuclear sunrise reminded them of their first paintings as children. Everyone loved the colors, and the shapes, and everyone believed that any child who could depict the sun must have some celestial angel whispering through their body. But this was no dream, and it was no painting. Destruction was our creation. Now the men and the women who decide upon the future of humanity have had their tantrums, and the sad, horrid, God-loving facets of man have pressed the buttons. And now the only painting is one of the sun sliding against the sky, its radioactive frame leaving us blinded, and hurting and lost. For God we fought, and now there was nothing. The blood, the dreams, and the sound of man – all lost. We turned to the window: the dreary storm had made us weary. More alone than we ever were, we waited for a remaining quiet. We were alone. Even our star struggled to join us, but we had drawn the curtain.