The drums the drums we are the drums and ringing in the swelling klanging I reemerge, left at the scene of the accident I passed at 65 on the Highway, Miles in minutes, and I stretch an uneasy neck into it. Quicksands of time. That we, the hapless incidental, deny and grow for. That which we can t don t and won t see coming. The century a river, end touching beginning and middle accelerating the sound and fury and dish washing and lawn cutting and war-making toward an unwritten and anxious End.
Trepidation is the word Millennium.
So many pebbles in a slingshot. So many gods. So many kinds of time.