The lightning was angry and insane, and she called me from a car and whispered she was afraid, she was surrounded by burning trees, and I told her if the world ends tonight, meet me on the eighth level of Purgatory.

The lightning flashed in dance beats, the snare to the thunder's kick, and I told her if reality rips like a whore's stocking and we are devoured into the hole, meet me on the eighth level of Purgatory.

We will skip the first six. Plummet past the lustful, the wrathful, the gluttonous, the proud, for we are all those things and are happy. Drop straight to the bottom, lay out on Dante's wretched beach amongst the churchless and the unforgiven, and bronze in the summer sun.

The lightning lit up the night and the thunder roared and shook us by the necks like violent fathers, and she said the connection was bad, she couldn't hear me over the noise. I shouted that if God slices the sky with lightning boxcutters, if everything falls away in tatters, meet me on the eighth level of Purgatory. We will dig our way down, through the borders of Dante's lowest thoughts, and I will meet you there in dark caverns. We will sit on the rocky ledge lit red from below. We will listen for the thunder, and sip wine on the edge of Hell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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