[...]... it was called Long story short, it’s the book you’re reading So where’s the confusion? The book was about a writer in his fifties working on a book In the future the book has yet to be written, even if it was written in the past Complicated, but it solved one issue: the older writer is not aware of the book that has already been published because in his world the book has not been written But wait—... medium to describe the end of the world, like using a billboard to tell the news What can I say, I’m a writer so I chose my medium I am also making the vain attempt to sum up the end of the world, as if my farsighted eyes are the window in I guess I’ve just summed up the limitless ego of the writer Even in the face of genocide, he tries to make a case for the beautiful uniqueness of his life But what... started writing a novel The book outlined everything that was terrifying me at the time My dreams were filled with images of the end of the world Dozens of planes crashing to the ground a night Explosions, broken buildings, people in rags fleeing and 6 banding together In one of these dreams I heard names— survivors, I told myself in the dream I woke up and thought, “There’s a book in this.” Here’s where... anger, right? Or the hypersensitivity of a future genius? I was still clinging to self-aggrandizement—what other defense did I have Why do I mention this? Because out of this environment came this novel, and out of the novel came Other Things Let me get to the plot of the novel I was proposing A writer uncovers the secrets of the UFO conspiracy, secret societies, and life after death, all of which lead... something that was the beginning of the end of the world Throughout my life I often felt like I was living in a shell of the better past The sixties, the Beat Generation, the Lost Generation, punk rock—I was too young for all those things, and so the past seemed to loom over my life like a successful older brother It’s a stupid, lonely, one-sided battle to be in competition with the past Finally, on... to the window The World Trade Center was out the window to the left, twin overseers of my neighborhood Imposing, thoughtful, indifferent, romantic: New York City buildings They always seemed like a fiction, a white smoky haze about them as if superimposed against the blue screen of the sky They were just too tall A black smoking hole in building, jagged and fragmented, as surreal as the buildings themselves... in the face of the Great Oppression the death of God, science, love and hate—except to believe in myself 10 1: Gentleman Reptile “There’s something wrong with me I’m attracted to every one of my female students Every one This should be illegal And they like it, they know Professor Myyyy-errrrs, they say Such a sexy name I have I didn’t hang around with girls like that when I was their age I dreamt of. .. like a mirror Then she wrote something down on a notepad, as if making a diagnosis She stood up and stared at me intently for a moment In her look: softness and respect and some lust They should sell how that feels And then she took off her top She stood there with poise, as if I’d offered a piece of my life and she was offering me a piece of hers “What do you think of them?” she asked “They’re nice,”... the state of things, he tried to rationalize They were afraid He was an easy target All the same, he didn’t become president to be hated He needed to regain their devotion He needed to do something permanent to help the country What was the point of discussing another health care or education bill? They didn’t do much good anyway The world didn’t just need another bandage It needed to be baptized The. .. Southern My naiveté can be amazing The same could be said about my time in New York I lived in New York for ten years trying to recreate the will of past writers, not realizing that we were living at the beginning of the future and not the continuation of the past Stephanie quickly got pregnant, in October, a September th 11 baby (called the Doomers, not the Boomers) Out of this environment—a new baby, . read this book for free, please consider donating to the author @ www.backwordbooks.com or theamericanbookofthedead.com . This is a work of fiction part of something that was the beginning of the end of the world. Throughout my life I often felt like I was living in a shell of the better past. The