The Foot of Chalcedony Street and the End of the World

In the Latter Year, when long thin spirals of smoky time trail upward from a desert of remnant artifacts, our beach will be a grinning, lip-less mouth for the skull of a continent. The waves will whisper in and out, hollowly, as Mojave winds flow in and out the sockets of a rabbit skull.

The birds will have their beach again, will form along the lacy lines of tiny skeletons and crusted bits of seaweed that mark the circumference of each new effort of the sea, and bloated carcasses of seals may lie there stinking as long as they want.