The Rapture occurred on Center Street last night. Evidence: three (3) abandoned bicycles.

Looks like the only ones taken up to heaven were the holy men disguised as beggars, and maybe those few who took care of them too. My best friend was one of these, but she lives far away and these days we only communicate by letter. I suppose the only way I'll know she is no longer part of this corporeal sphere is if I never get another letter from her again.

We are Luddites, both, she always being so and me drifting so recently, after a fling with futurism and enough Twitter threads to make any sane person nervous. Now I am torn between the simple life and the mindless pleasures of modern convenience—to choose the slow and deep, or the fast and shallow.

Last night the Rapture occurred on Center Street, and I don't think anybody noticed. Though it's probably better that we don't know what we're missing out on—a dance with holy men and beggars alike, their salvation wrought by something greater than my meager coins—a dance in an immaterial sphere, my best friend playing the tambourine.

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