The Slow Death of A Thursday Morning.

All truth is crooked, time itself is a circle.

– Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarasthustra.

This morning has been akin to a slow-motion death scene in a old John Woo film (you know the ones) but I’m now beginning to think that time might be broken. The stoic hands of the old office clock just ground to a shuddering halt and splintered, unleashing a terrible and implacable scream, and the wheels on the forklift have been uninvented (such a depressing sight, a forklift without her wheels).

A dove misses my head by inches as the timeworn wood of my cumbersome desk enters some kind of strange retrograde, appearing to be an ancient Oak tree swaying silently in an unspoilt meadow, a stone’s throw from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The walls crawl home to the quarry, the keyboard now a wave of carbons and electrons flittering in the chill air; no, particles, particles dancing to the hidden songs of existence.

I hear screaming outside… was that a mammoth? A pterodactyl? The Germanics? The Celts? The Iberians or Parthians? 

The sun, the sun appears to be shrinking; a maelstrom of dust and gas and vast clouds of darkness; the baffling blur of universes as they flicker in and out of existence, the Big Bang and the Big Crunch and the Big Bounce and the Big Rip, eight days and eight nights are over in an instant and somewhere a serpent is laughing; the sun, the sun appears to be shrinking…

… and implodes.

READING: Extinction Journals, by Jeremy Robert Johnson.

LISTENING: Ritual Spirit, by Massive Attack.

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