Apocalypse happens so often.
All that one knows about a person falls apart, displaying a weaker or indifferent or sinister side. It makes people look like fools in their own eyes.
Her pulse is feeble, and probably she is losing her hearing power. A voice seems to come from afar, but emanates from a white shadow on the bedside.
“How are you feeling, Miss Jones?”
“All those sharp lines and angles are blurring. The bright colors on my paintings are fading and I never diluted colors.”
“Can you read the sign in front of you?”
“Yes. The end is near.”