The disaster has already happened, said W. during our talk. That's what we're committed to, he said, meaning him and me. It's already happened! It's all finished! Can't you see that it's finished? But no one agreed with us. We're quite alone, we agreed afterwards, walking to the train.
Alone with the apocalypse! The only thing for it is to drink. Luckily we have a bottle of gin in our bag. We are sober men, terribly sober. It's only those who are most sober of all who have to drink, and then to the point when they can no longer pronounce the word apocalypse. It's only then, drunk as lords, that we will know God's plan, which we will immediately forget.
Are we capable of religious belief? Of course not. We're not capable of anything, that's the trouble. We're up against the apocalypse with no means to fight it. The disaster has already happened. We were born, for one thing. We're going to die, that's another. And the oceans will boil and the skies burn away into space …
It's all over, it's all finished. This is the interregnum. A little reprieve, an Indian summer. But we're deep into autumn, and winter is coming – or should that be the other way round? Deep into spring – a new kind of spring, a boiling spring – and a summer is coming that will set fire to everything.
Maybe it will come later, after we're dead. Maybe sooner – tomorrow. But in another sense, it's already come; it's spread its wings around us. We're men of the End, of the Very End. We're men of the Disaster, which no one else knows but us. Which no one else feels. Drink, drink, we have to drink. So we unscrew the top of our gin bottle as the train rolls out of the station …
Lars Iyer's Blog 