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So very close to midnight

February 9, 2017

Are we running as futilely as ants scattered by hot water? Are we 30 days, 30 hours, 30 minutes from apocalypse? I run a finger over a fissure in my knuckle that could as easily have been caused by dry air as by punching a wall. Will it heal? Will it matter?

Fatalism is a quagmire of hopelessness, and yet, on certain nights, I hear the warning sirens in my head, and I wait for the crackle of my own skin. We are so very close to midnight, and it is difficult to imagine the clock turning back.

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