feel sick. There is no future. We have blown it all on partying like there’s no tomorrow—and damned if there isn’t.
Tomorrow is a state of mind, anyway. It never comes, as the old song has it. Or is it a proverb? I can’t be bothered to check. Life continues—today turns into tomorrow as inevitably as the Jurassic turns into the Cretaceous, or lime turns into chalk.
Tag ends of old commercials run through my mind—the result of being immersed in radio and television during my formative years. They don’t even make the products any more, but I still know the words to the Ipana jingle. The Great American Soup. The multituburculates of my mind. Long extinct critters that only exist as shadows.
Coherence is a chimera. Cimmerian darkness? Generations of critters that lived their tiny lives leaving nothing behind. Gondwanaland rafting towards oblivion, like those monotremes and flightless birds whose ancestors chose to settle on the future site of Antarctica. Might as well buy waterfront property at Spirit Lake or a condo in pre-war Nagasaki.
Prosperity is just around the corner? Don’t give me that. I live too close to the razor’s edge.