The grass was submerged in dew, the sun rose above the horizon in bare magnificence. The waters ran as they always had, still as can be. There was crispness in the air that you only feel when the leaves enter their eclipse. Of course I didn’t feel anything.
You see, I died. I was taken by a sickness that is hard to rid oneself of, a disease that takes so many, an epidemic that stretches from one hemisphere to the other. There’s something in the way it moves from person to person.
The existential impact is undeniable. Rape, murder, war, and genocide are all symptoms of this sickness. It spreads like cancer; it moves like death, it kills you from the inside out.
The leaves fell to the ground, surrounding the grey stone resting on the hill. My epitaph read as a warning.
I have died of apathy.