The weather is strange: a real dog day, overcast and grey and still; perhaps a steady hail of cogs and caps and casings; here and there, a garble of boards and wiring, spat out of the sky, maybe.
Overhead: some sort of roaring gyrodyne or helibus, chopping through the smog sideways; a thin soupy ring of cloud where the sun was. In the distance, a bank of steeples stretch heavenward, bellowing tines of smoke. A fibrillation underfoot; a structural undertow; a gnashing of architectural teeth. Just beyond the next concrete cliff, a window, a promise, a torii framed in steel and sealed with plate glass.
Only a terrible fairy tale. So rest easy tonight, young Charlie, little Jamie, tiny Tilda—the apocalypse is nigh, but it is not yet here. For now, there are only the signs: a pigeon, a dove, an office chair.