A Rapture Soundtrack

The epigraph. Willy’s last morning is the story’s first breath — unhurried, absurd, tender. The whole rapture is already here.

The waking. The record clicks on and morning floods the room — cannabis smoke, Beatles noise, the ordinary made sacred.

The weight beneath the morning. Drone and dread sitting quietly alongside the domesticity. The apocalypse was always already here.

And we feel fine. The party in Central Park — everyone bopping to whatever sound is found, forty-nine minutes to go.

Anxious mundane. The body doing ordinary things while the mind reaches for something it can’t name. Pre-dust restlessness.

Hazy dissolution. The dream being told slowly — swirling, strange, not quite frightening. Warm disorientation.

Smoke trails over the park. The MC says two minutes. The sky is full of missiles and we are still dancing.

We partied like it was. Because it was. Not a care in the world — that kind of care just stopped mattering.

The dust settles on your face, on your hair, on mine. Strange love in the swirl — the most beautiful effect.

Naked and alone. The fan off, the dust settling into corners. Something so vast and somehow still SO Loving.

The last motes catching light. The dream you can’t hold. The only one you ever wanted to tell it to.