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Once there was a river so brown, you could not hear the fish below ferrying their wimpled souls down and out to the seamless sea, protected as they were from that invisible and indifferent marauding actor who alone does strut and fret this time upon the globe with a lot more fury than sound. And on the bridge above we, its captive audience, stroll on feeling each to ourselves that this performance, as powerful as the reviewers say it is, will have to end its haunting run soon. For surely no show can hope to command the attention of an audience of billions for that long, right? There’s a reason saints are venerated, enmarbled and so few. We check the time, calculate the interval, measure the rhythm of the plot, waiting for the curtain to drop, the exit doors to fling open, and this dreamplay to end. But end it will not, because time has become a wilderness and the gears of the clock have been overgrown. Forward is no longer the opposite of backwards. And even the sun seems hungry and ready to swallow the sky leaving us all clinging to the railing when the silence of deep space surrounds us and we feel strangely satisfied by seeing revealed finally the face of the cataclysm itself – towering above the city, roaring with the din of the apocalypse and sweeping us all up into its brown arms like our ancient mother returned at long last to console us each in this calamity, filling our ears and stuffing our nostrils with silty effluence as we tumble and toss – smiling with the satisfaction of a terribleness we can actually taste. No more anxiety of the hidden doubts of perceptions, of two-meter measurements and the like. But no. Of course not: now is not the time for such knowing. The great lens of rectitude and revelation lies still buried in the lost bottom of the sea. So we carry on trying to amplify the world of yesterday into this timeless today. But what of tomorrow and tomorrow? Perhaps it never arrives. Maybe this day just grows longer expanding until it's a week, then a month, then a year. Back here on the bridge, we jog on at a pace as our words get shorter to help keep the required space. Salvation’s too big a word; perdition’s too long. This new world speaks nothing, while we yearn to listen. Schhhlllippp! Into this gap creeps the cold brown tongue of the river, lapping at the bridge’s moorings and licking each of the banks clean while the untroubled fish in the depths dance through the pilings to the songs of the birds in the sky up above.