When I was a child, I used to have recurring nightmares about the end of the world. I’m not sure I was particularly prescient; rather, I think it was a product of my being very young and impressionable during the height of millennial Y2K hysteria coupled with the more pressing anxiety of living in a home filled with alcoholism and domestic abuse. Whatever the cause, I dreamt about the apocalypse off and on for years—the dreams themselves ranging from a basic world-on-fire cliché to a much more original and disturbing vision of golden buzzsaws ceaselessly multiplying and slicing the world into oblivion.
Asimov’s Foundation and Finding Hope in Crisis
