1When they woke up that morning, everybody knew it was too late. The idea had hit them sometime during the night with the cold certainty of a clear ice shard. It was now settled deeply within themselves, hidden somewhere in the everlasting depths of their minds. There would not be another stainless dawn, nor would there ever be an untainted dusk. Hope, once an option, a strong desire for a betterment of some kind, was barren and barred to all. It was too late. The difficulty was to accept it, to make it part of themselves and to live, for the bright time they were allowed, and to burn as shamelessly, as beautifully as they had done of old. There was no place for purity anymore, as though the endless rants of forgotten scholastic thinkers had finally achieved reality and brought to life their absurd description of a postlapsarian world.

2Yet nobody had fallen, or even failed. They had done their best, the best they could manage and that already was something. Day by day, they had gone on and on, solely motivated by the idea that, when the time comes, they would be ready, they would be prepared and, as they always had, they would survive. Never did they under or overestimate what was coming. They were right on the mark, bullseye. And still it was too late.

3At first, they endured it, as condemned animals bear their yokes and fancy themselves free, they kept on, smiling against all odds and all foes and all better knowledge. For a time, they even succeeded in pretending. They would say colours still were bright, birds still were flying and clouds still were wandering. They believed it. They actually did, and this was no mean feat. Their world had been their oyster and still was so. People went to work and came back, day in, day out. They shopped in malls or in small shops. They drank their tea and organic coffee. Rich and poor alike, whatever the face, they lived. They kept on living.

4What beautiful days were these. Someone once said that melancholy was the remembrance of things past. These days were melancholic as any, and if this be error and proved, then they lived for naught. Not that they shone brighter, blossomed better or sang deeper. They just were as same old as they could in front of the darkest truth. They did not surrender and they fought well. Without realising it, they took a little more time to appreciate what was around. A child looking at a duck, a grown-up stooping to smell a flower. Step by step, the evidence seeped into their whole being and things started not making sense anymore.

5They did not know who stopped first, and where. They all knew why. Someone just stopped. Going to work, in the beginning, then going out, then eating, then being. It became a trend at some point. People would stop functioning: behind the wheel of this meaningless brand new sportscar, in front of the behemothean machine they operated, behind anonymous desks in anonymous offices in anonymous buildings of anonymous companies. They ceased. Just like the Bartleby of old, they followed the path of least resistance.

6Governments were not satisfied with such a situation. They, too, knew it was too late. They might have known it first of all but they had to play the game to the bitter end, following the rules they had clownishly devised. They tried to move the stopped and ceased. Gently at first, and when they did not answer, by force. Carefully they seized them and moved them into hospitals, psychiatric wards, then gymnasiums and school recess courts, and then into stadiums before, finally, in their due turn, they gave up.

7The ceased turned into deceased and no one really cared anymore. It was time for a second reaction, just an exaggeration of the original appreciation. Gurus appeared from nowhere and taught people how they should be grateful for the reflexion of the light on the fleeting movement of a butterfly’s wing. They must contemplate the beauty of the silver moon over the placid lake. They had to appreciate everything and bask in the beautiful glory of a world that was, undoubtedly so now, the work of God.

8Not so long after that came the natural next stage, right on time this finishing symphony’s score. Not only did they have to appreciate it but some said they had to pay homage to nature. Not only respect it but also revere it and accept that it took precedent over each and every. As though deer and does did not know it was too late. They, too, carried on a bit, like belated guests lingering on at a party that had long reached its end. Then they died, too.

9Birds fell down or, rather, flew down, top speed, and broke their delicate necks, slamming squishingly onto the concrete floors of the cities. Rivers overflowed with the corpses of small animals, bloated and bleak. Fish discovered a new passion for ships’ helixes or underwater volcanoes.

10Frenzies started and were not provoked by criminals who had long ago escaped wardenless prisons. No, mothers and fathers would suddenly carry their argument to new heights and took care of their children so that they did not see the actual end. Others would loot and roam, fighting against any and every one, in the faint hope, so deeply ingrained within the human psyche, that their last victory was a prediction of the final one. Armies all around the world held the fort remarkably well. Years and years of drilling and training had made them susceptible only to no-nonsense orders. They prevented nuclear launches. They saved people every time they could. There would be songs and poems written about their deeds if there were anyone left to write them.

11Artists everywhere throve while all about them were plunging happily unto chaos. Unsung heroes of an unsung time as well. They showed their gaudiest colours and their deepest love and their utmost genius and they were gone so there was none in the final days.

12Trees and plants were the real victors of this battle. They had been there at the beginning and they were there at the end, noble and tall, fair and glad, small and vicious, dark and darker. They witnessed the pathetic explosions of manned rockets trying to flee with their cargos of egotistically stupid visionary billionaires. They even spared a laugh for that and it was a first in the longest time anyone could recall. They lived it through, plants and flowers and mushrooms and undergrowth, carefully sheltering all the insects they could find, recounting their dreams from the past and their histories of the future.

13Then, in due time, they, too, ceased. There was a final rustling of all leaves and grass and branches in the world. And then, there was none.