The Sick Note

The apocalypse: our alibi, our excuse. The greatest of sick notes. What could we achieve? What could have we have done?

We knew it was coming; we set down our pens. We knew a new dawn – the opposite of dawn – was spreading dark rays behind the horizon; we closed our books. So it was coming; it really was time.

But it was only its conditions that had come. Only the chance of its coming, likely as it was. We've entered a new phase. We're expectant; the sky has darkened as before the thunderstorm, and the storm will come, but when?

We're watching out for lightning. Listening out to hear the rumble. Show us a sign! But our lives are full of signs. Too full; overfull. Life is burgeoning with death. The night – the bright stars – with the disaster to come.

Will the sun plunge into the sea? It will be as if the sun has fallen into the sea. Will the stars fall from the sky? It will be as if those stars have fallen. W. and I fall asleep with dreams of the apocalypse wrapped around us like blankets.