January 17, 1994 4:31am

I was asleep, so I can’t remember how or when it began. All I know is that suddenly we were clinging to each other under the bedroom doorway, terrified and convinced that these were our last moments. Our bedroom, which was otherwise lit by L.A. city lights, was pitch black and was violently lurching in every direction. A lifetime of preparation did not come close to preparing either of us for the sheer panic and utter conviction that the world was indeed coming to an end.

An eternity passed. We screamed unintelligible revelations and obscenities. Strange, unrelated memories and images flooded my mind.

I only became aware of the loud rumbling as it started to slow. Electrified streetlamps–bursting one by one like a string of fireworks passing by our window–signalled its end. A pause of silence, then every car alarm in the city that loves cars, dutifully alerted their owners of the disaster. We loosened our grip on each other and, trying to contain our nerves, moved across the still wobbly floor towards shoes and flashlights. Then Jeff called from the other room, “I hate to say it, but the windows are still intact so that probably wasn’t ‘the big one.”