Me and the Cockroaches
It’s time. My whole life has been building to this moment. My destiny is at hand.
Grimacing through my body’s myriad protests, slow as the human mind to abandon self-deception, I lurch to my feet and start crunching across desiccated prairie grass. A puff of stygian summer wind wafts at my back as if to prod me along, but I pay no heed, setting my pace barely above a shuffle. Destiny is terribly important, but its days of flitting away around the next corner are finished. I can close the remaining distance at my leisure.
