End of days. The streets are covered in thick, glossy ice and my bare feet keep slipping, I fall hard on my face again and pick myself up slowly. So cold. At the beach concrete has been poured thickly into the sea, I walk on the soft surface towards two figures I've seen, passing the dying top of a small tree. 'How deep is it here?' one asks. 'Three metres.' the other. They look at me and fall silent.