According to my calender it’s Friday. The third to last Friday of all time. At least for people.
I know this is my sixth entry. I know that for sure, but though this book has survived, my previous pages are missing. Torn out.
I’m not sure why I’m writing this. I guess I need to. For me.
Everyone has end of the world prophesies, who would’ve thought the Christians would be right? I’m sure that’s what drove them crazy. I remember when the six-hundred and sixty-six disappeared. None of them were on television or in positions of power. But that was it. All the rest were left here, wondering why they hadn’t been taken. The universal disappointment generated blame, distrust, and chaos on an unimaginable scale. A man named Beck started a massive crusade to cleanse the world. Fire and murder were his tools.
The end of the world is everything I’ve ever feared: oppression, and pain.
So much pain.
The twenty-first won’t be the end of the world, it’ll be an end to pain and I welcome that. God help me!