When the world had ended, there was nothing left for them to do anyway except sit and wait for the slow crawl of the minutes and seconds and nanoseconds that marked the passage of their lives to stop. The feeling was of a room full of sunlight, and a blurriness that would not abate, as though they were nearsighted and had taken off their glasses. But perhaps they had; perhaps the sharp focus of the real world was false, and this--soft, blurry, warm, slightly off-balance--was what was really real.
He lay near a window, almost asleep in an unreal wash of sunlight, and curled and uncurled his fingers, over and over again, beckoning.
When it began, nobody knew what was happening, and so there was little panic. Every day, the slow loss of senses until death did not provoke a reaction. It was the most perfect and beautiful thing; to slip away, to float on a sea of white static into nothingness. It could begin as simply as the sun, brighter than usual, burning white in a yellow sky, and i