The earth’s angry core has boiled over and reached the surface. The blue planet has turned the red of a cold sun. Our children endure their pain on its molten spittings like effigies on a bonfire, their latex faces and rubber-gloved hands running and hissing in the heat.

Sometimes I wish. I wish a blinding light would come, followed by a huge bang, to take the agony away. Let the world start all over again, from whatever survives the blast. Let it be ruled by rats or insects. Or unknown creatures of the darkest depths, hidden far enough below that the world’s end cannot kill or taint them. Let them have their day. See what they make of what we have left them.

But this is not a wish. This is the future. We will not outlive the sun.