Traveling Through the World of Corruption

I stepped on the sticky blood and walked through the corridor. The sole of my Martin boots ran over a severed finger, making a dull cracking sound. In the shadow of the elevator entrance, several broken limbs were squirming in strange postures, and the sound of fingernails scraping the ground was like a dull knife cutting nerves. I leaned against the mottled wall and unscrewed the last can of instant coffee. As the warm liquid slid down his throat, his eyes casually scanned the decay in front of him - the tilted billboard, the coagulated blood, and the staggering figure in the distance. The world has turned into a pot of porridge, and I still hold a half-cup of uncooked coffee in my hand. Perhaps this is the truth about the end of the world: not hysterical screaming, but watching a long, silent collapse in the smell of blood, drinking coffee.