Margaret the Overblown Teenage Prophet Adam, my clapping, flittering friend, just a moment of your time. But what excuse to get us alone? Suppose I had a vision of the end of the world and I told you that tonight was the end of the world: I grab your hand and we run and we reach the top if we can call it that, of the mountain we can see from your backyard. I am dizzy and pretend to swoon and fall and tumble into your arms, though the burning world (yes, the bubbling world of radioactive decay or the second coming or whatever spice suits our congress) has done away with nothing more than propriety at long last. So I have brambles in my hair and briars on my socks and thighs, but I don’t notice. So what do we do now: do we do now what I have cried over and wept for and waited on and wondered about? I am praying and you are praying and the world-consuming fires are darker in the distance and soon it is only us only. Only we’ve left lollipop love, greasy hands behind. I scream for all the world to hear if the world could hear. I never knew how many colors a shrinking moon could let me see.
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