Shredding

They're shredding the trees outside the office, I tell W. on the phone. They're cutting off their boughs with chainsaws, and then feeding them into shredding machines. Leaves fly up … The smell of shredded leaves … My God! …

This is how it begins, the end of the world, I tell W. They'll do it to us next. They'll cut off our limbs and feed us to the machines. Blood spattering up into the air … Cries … But still the men with their helmets feeding us in. Still the men with their chainsaws, cutting off our limbs and feeding them in.