falling meteors
27. December. 2044.
It begun with one.
A single leap, by a muse-like angel, dressed in a white skirt soon stained crimson, colliding into her destiny upon the sidewalk.
And then, it spread.
We don’t know why it spread. No-one did. Whenever people got together, they would all end up the same. The survivors called them ‘falling angels’. We gradually avoided human contact altogether. Families separated. Nations fell. Suicide clubs popped up everywhere on the pavements painted with blood. And all these elf-like men and Diana-like women, these falling angels, were always the same , dressed in white and always, forever, leaping with the widest smiles.
Some of us have taken to plains and savannas, jungles and forests, away from the heights that have brought so many to their deaths. I am one of those people. And as I sit here, warmed by the campfire , watching them build a tower out of logs as I write, I know that my time is short, and I would have to meet my destiny soon.
Goodbye.
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