Adjusts weathered reading glasses and stares out at another unseasonably warm winter day

Greetings, readers of Sans Cerebrum News. I am Kaos Yuftberlt, your climate reporter—though I suspect many of you still wonder what exactly that means, or whether such a position is even necessary. After thirty-seven years of documenting our planet's steady march toward catastrophe, I've grown accustomed to the blank stares and dismissive waves.

You see, I've spent decades watching the data pile up like autumn leaves that never seem to decompose anymore. I've reported on melting glaciers, rising seas, and dying coral reefs while politicians called it natural variation. I've documented species extinctions and extreme weather events while industry spokesmen labeled it coincidence. The truth sits before us like a patient, terminal diagnosis that no one wants to read.

We are authoring our own apocalypse, line by carbon-laden line. This isn't pessimism speaking—it's mathematics. It's chemistry. It's the simple, inexorable physics of cause and effect that cares nothing for our comfort or convenience.

These days, I find solace in my small garden behind the house, coaxing tomatoes to grow in soil that seems increasingly foreign to itself. In the evenings, I escape into fantasy novels where heroes still save worlds and magic can heal what seems broken beyond repair. How quaint those stories seem now, where the greatest threats come from dragons rather than from within ourselves.

The tears stopped years ago. Now there is only the work, and the dwindling hope that someone, somewhere, is finally listening.

—K. Yuftberlt, Climate Desk