The end is coming, W. says. He's sure of that. Our end, or the end of the world? Both!, W. says. The one is inextricable from the other. Do I see it as he does? Is he the only one who can read the signs?
He can see them now, even on this sunny day in Cawsands. He sees them in our honey beer, W. says. In the dog who wants me to play with him, dropping a stone at my feet. In the narrowness of the three-storeyed house opposite. In the name of the pub in whose garden we drink: The Rising Sun. And in me, too? – 'In you above all', W. says.
The Rising Sun: what sun is going to rise over us? A black sun, says W. A sun of ashes and darkness. He sees the image in his mind's eye: the man and boy of The Road, pushing a shopping cart down an empty highway. Only in our case, it'll be two men, squabbling over whose turn it is to ride in the cart. Two men with ashes in their hair, exiled from the cities and all cities.
At the busstop, W. speaks of his dream of a community, of a society of friends who would push one another to greatness. Where are they now, our absent friends? Far from us! Scattered all over the world!
If only they were closer! Of what we might be capable! They would make us great!, W. says. We'd make each other great! Or perhaps that is just our last temptation: the thought that something could make us great.
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