For weeks now, the rumblings have been distant and low, but each day, they grow closer: echoes of a distant dread. Through the subterranean tunnels, it comes, the Balrog – ambition withers in its path, dreams splinter and snap. Deep into the city where the willful urban twixter po’ folk dwell, with their no benefits, their clothes from six years ago, their hopeful new iphones. It comes even for them, the Nothing, wiping out all in its path. Even those small, powerless grubs who have elected to find a little-noticed crevice on a larger creature, and hunker down there, making no noise, causing little harm, silently sucking…they, too, will be dragged forth, out into the glaring light of day, and counted. The fire of this crisis leaves no pore unscoured – even the armpits and nostrils of the corporate beasts will be flushed clean.

It comes. Closer and closer, it comes. It sucks up years, it grays youth, it brings forth the sweat from even the most habitually sedated brow…

It comes. It comes. It comes for you. RUN!!!!