Alone. Huddled in a new apartment in Williamsburg, commuting to Times Square each day for work, back home to boxes from a former life. I have only words and my skill in arranging them into a cohesive whole to save me. Nothing has changed.

I still have a mission. Upon collecting seven years worth of scenes, essays, poetic prose, therein I found purpose. I wrote myself free from who I was, left with only a vague sensation of who I could become. A blank page does not stay that way for long.

The oncoming psychological shift mankind calls the Apocalypse sits at the end of this year, 2012, patiently waiting for us to burst forth from the carcass of life as we knew it. This is what I’ve been preparing for since I began to ponder the future and my role in it.

There’s no room for pleasantries and nostalgic remembrances of former relationships, romantic or otherwise. There is only Ragnarok and the wolf spirit Fenrir who must kill the All-Father Odin, then consume the World Serpent, his brother. The spawn of the trickster god Loki are as undeserving of love as our future actions will surely demonstrate.

They thought me a mere pup, bound me with mystic snares, treating me as a pet the gods could control as a guard dog. They know this will be their undoing and I shall not spare them regardless. They need devastation, for they nurtured a vicious anger and blind rage in my breast with every demeaning moment spent among the heavens.

I was meant to see the whole of humanity, chained in frustrating powerlessness at the feet of gods. The wolf in me has shaken off the poison that sapped my strength, but as yet I am far too weak to affect the mighty changes this world hungers for.

So tonight, I shuffle off to the subway, grab some manner of sustenance wherever I can, and sleep, dreaming of the last moments of those I imagined to care about in that submissive former life, and I shall begin to craft a plan on how to kill God.