The screech takes over all other perceptions, it freezes the air and for a moment we sense the reality of death. The worm is coming, and far as it is still we can already imagine it bursting out of the ground, devouring all in it's tracks, gliding on the lubricant of our blood.
Elsewhere, unaware, in an office, a meeting room is full of people vainly arguing about their work, as if it actually mattered. They do it all day long, managing their alienated instinct of survival as best as they can.
The worm is coming ! The worm is coming ! Already religions are starting up, believers immolating themselves, though no one could say why. But a meeting is a meeting, and no matter how much they complain, how many times they look at the clock wishing it was over – they would die without it. It is the ritual that marks their lives, that validates their miserable existences.
By night fall riots have taken over the city, and the building where the meeting has at last finished is on fire. It's time to go home but they cannot, no more than they can accept their fate. “Where did it all go wrong?” they ask.
The worm is coming ! The worm is coming !