Notes from an Easel-Part 83

This being Easter- working on this piece strikes me as incredibly a propos.
Meanwhile, the paint flows as easily as a fine Irish malt at a wake.
I can afford to be so flippant, rudely awakened today from a heavy food coma, by an earthquake that rolled the house like a tugboat on the Mersey, and rattled the corrugated awning like the sound of Thor lobbing thunder.
I fled to the garden, still dizzy from my sleep, damp with cold sweat and staring at Lani in frozen terror:wondering if this was indeed the-"BIG ONE".

'You get used to it'-people here will remark with a passive shrug, except I am gripped by horrible, irrational nightmares of the world beneath my feet falling away, and the ebon eternity beneath swallowing me up-no doubt Pat Robinsons voice echoing that my evil sigils assured my eternal damnation.

I need not have feared, my pinhead cat's lay motionless in a heap of blankets throughout.
Either they are in possession of an internal seismograph, or are content in the knowledge that come the end of days, only roaches and felines are likely to survive.

I fear the latter.