The apocalypse never seems to come, nevermind the wails of prophets and forecasts of the neurotics. Just as happens in the individual, the apparent point where the horizon seems to fade into the infinite space behind it, to pursue the horizon doesn’t bring one to the infinite but around the curve to a new place, a different shore, a strange feeling where you are alive again beyond the end. Much of our art, an attempt to communicate with the human through aesthetic deformation and deceit, for us purely, indifferent to the animal and nature that it takes its prime resource from, tries to make sense of the end of things, of the world, but this in truth is foolishness. The world, what we call life, but ought to rather call existence, distinct, does not end: it is us who will end, our moments and days, a time within time that bleeds its color as gloss leaves the eye looking at nothing at last.
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