With whom does the unpeopled landscape speak?
With the final desolation etched on the soul. The mark of the wipe behind an eternal, eternally methodical wiping. Its finality ensures its continuity—a generative continuity—always new, always terminal.
We must perhaps understand the apocalypse in similar terms. A generative continuity that is final and new. And perhaps even beautiful.
Here, unmanned boats suggest the men who made them. Birds aim to be dinosaurs. Scant vegetation knows nothing of lush vegetation. But whatever happened is still happening, and shall continue to happen. Time doesn’t have Fate’s bad habit, you see: it doesn’t affix itself to any subject; it doesn’t stand still. If reason tells you that your time on this little ball will soon be over, it's lying. It was never your time to begin with. You may refer to you here, or to the whole of humanity.
