THEN THERE WAS A CRASH
First there was an ending. Then there was another ending, then several more. They were not mystical or catastrophic, they were awkward and did not glow. Soon the people were surrounded by endings, navigable but frustrating, unforgiving in their similarities. The woman with ribbons in her hair dies. The man in the bow tie dies. His son the fish merchant dies. Replacements are sought and gained via birth, but birth is an ending painted lime green, Rebecca’s son with Bruce is the wedge the tells them no, not everything is navigable. Rebecca’s son grows up, lives, performs functions, dies. Rebecca’s son experiences an ending, many endings, many kind of endings, all feeling the same, feeling less like doom or torment than discovering the line you’ve been waiting in for a long time is not a line to or for anything, just a line.
Nobody despairs. Despair takes too much work.
Work needs to be saved for earning money and persuading people to love you. And neither is love absent or absence, love is just a fact, a small firm fact, like the fact the sky is almost always blue or black but hardly ever red or green.
If there still is such a thing as sky, if sky has not ended.
When God arrives overflowing with glow, nobody is too impressed because everyone is very busy trying not to fuck up.
Then, much much bigger than a crash, even though it sounds like a scraping-steel crash––