The end is very fucking nigh. Today the wind blew through Londres announcing the end of the world. It whispered in every ear that ventured outside, rattled windows, wrote in the air with twigs it had snapped. Nobody seemed surprised. The end has been clearly on the horizon for a while now, heralded by the utter vacuity of everything you will see in an art gallery. Londres is for the lost, but among its populace are a few with other positions, less lost.
This is early spring but the only feelings around are autumn feelings. The crows in Burble Park looked particularly contented. This is their kind of time. I felt like stopping my velocipede to shout at them, but there were too many. Is it a ‘gang’ of crows, or am I imagining that? This gang would have fucked me up given the chance.
As for the sky today, it was almost certainly in league with the crows. The end will have no effect on the smug sky, or will only change its mood.
A man leaned out his van as he drove past and told me I had dropped something out my bag some fifty metres back. My bag was well sealed and I didn’t know if it was a cruel joke so I did not go back. On the bright side, I have eaten a series of fatty chocolate snacks shipped in from elsewhere. They did not seem to know about the end of the world there, and perhaps that is a good thing. The world still drains into London and we love it.
Crows aside, the theme of my thoughts was the usual one: how to live in the time we’ve got left, how to defeat the fucking landlords, how to have hope when there is none. There is a future of course, though in some different Londres. I know of other believers in the future, but even amongst their number, those who understand that action is the only tonic for hopelessness are a minority.
Perhaps that’s just meant to make me feel better about myself. Everyone in Londres wants to be special.