As I sit and stare at the crumbling world around me, I am often reminded that I am only seventy-five years of age. Which means that I have another fifteen years to go, assuming that I will live as long as both of my parents, give or take a year. And the sole reason I am looking forward to those fifteen years ahead is that I will witness many a mayhem that is in wait for the human species. But the single reason to witness all this is to put everything into words, which will end up in my bulging Residua. I conceive of myself as the witness, no less. For whose gain, though? Chances are that I am deluding myself, as is my entrenched habit, for there is hardly anyone around the globe who wishes to read about such things, let alone the spiraling mayhems yet to appear on the horizon. Nowadays, the bulk of humans is after entertainment and nothing but entertainment. And who is to blame them? What else is left for them to do in the remainder of time allotted to them but have fun until their last breath? To be sure, this world is about to meet its maker one way or another.