Above all, W. admires my apocalypticism. When I speak in a calm and certain voice of the great disasters that are about to engulf us, he stops everything to listen. He clears space for me, stands back, and lets me speak as though I was a witch-doctor or a holy fool.
If there's one thing I'm right about it is the the slew of great disasters that are about to sweep us away, W. says. I've always been right on these matters, W. says, just as I am wrong on every other matter. In fact, it's my chief attribute, W. thinks, my sense of the apocalypse and the absolutely seriousness with which I talk of the apocalypse.
Sometimes, W. thinks he chooses his friends on the basis of their apocalypticism. If they manifest no apocalypticism, how can someone be his friend? One way to tell, says W., is their reaction to that song by Godspeed, what is it? oh yes, Dead Flag Blues. He plays it to everyone, W. says, and reminds me of the lyrics. These are truly the last days, says W. That's what you understand, isn't it? It's the only thing you really understand.
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