In the Kitchen, the floor was covered in mud. Tiny brown pawprints, one on top of the other on top of the other, like a herd of cats had been disassembling my kitchen in perfectly decided upon chaos. Footprints on the counter. On the chairs. And earthworms, five of them, on the floor in front of the fridge. Stretched and vulnerable, without the strength of soil into which to recede to roil and boil in their hungry, patient way, there was something obscene about them. Spots of them hardening, sometimes entire sides exposed to the mean heat of my apartment crusted over, burnt. Burnt offerings to the great dark god which gives the milk, which rains downs tins of sweet kitten ambrosia. On this great day, the day which was to be the end of all things, my cats held sacrificed great gifts to Saint Frigidaire. They dressed themselves in soil-brown heathen warpaint and left for me a map of their wild early morning dance.

I picked up all the earthworms, wet them in the sink, and tossed them over the porch railing, back to the soil. We'll have none of that here.

The world won't be ending today.