I’m a pebble throw of a catastrophe away from being ok,
whatever those words could mean in these days.  
I-I’ll be ok as the world crumbles into a billion of pieces,
as oceans transform into gaping devouring abysses,
when what is left of humanity is but a whisper in time,
then,
then I’ll be ok.  
What else could you ask of me,
Or, do you perhaps mean what is left of this shell?
You are asking of me when the dead will wake,
when the gods will step up from their slumber in shattering caves?
I-I’ll be fine, don’t you worry love; when I cannot tell but my guess is not the truth you wanted anyway.