The chime that marks the lateness of the hour is also the sound of a coffin lid closing. It brings to mind the smell of fresh turned earth and old flowers. It’s all made up of pine splinters and junk for the rag man to sell.
I know how it all ends. I have always known. Marley’s foul ghost image is still laughing at me.
When the Future comes it is silent, so that all of the spaces that its voice might have occupied are filled instead with everything else. It does not touch, so all of my skin aches for its essential negation. It is the last and most naked weapon of my enemy, and it does not bother with trickery. The Future merely…is. It presents itself as inevitable, and simply lets my fevered mind finish its dark thoughts.
There is no more potent creative force in the world than the union of logic and fear.
The Future’s chilly certainty compels me to consider what might be, and I cannot look away because I am creating its nightmare vision for myself. As long as I am the author of my choices, to refuse it is to refuse myself, which is plainly impossible. This, at last, is what makes my enemy’s victory secure.
It is impossible, isn’t it?
What if there is still one thing left to refuse?