We All Saw This Coming

I spent the morning reading in the park and walking around the neighborhood. The golden hour turned salmon by wildfires thousands of miles away; you can taste the smoke on moist lips. By noon the sun has disappeared behind impenetrable 90% grey. My voice is growing raspy. My eyes burn. Any exposed skin itches and smells of fireplaces in the distance. The office is bombarding me with questions about things they have to pay us to care about. I do not respond. I’m on vacation, and it’s the goddamned Apocalypse.