It’s undeniable, this vein snaking its way through the mind of the world: This is the end of all things. Repent or party. Do what you have to do.
I don’t buy it. Yes, the end might be near for you or me. Who knows? Our illnesses might suddenly overtake us, throw us out of the game. But I believe in modern medicine. I want to believe.
We are such small, self-absorbed creatures, constantly mistaking the end of our lineage for the end of all things. There is a certain Tower of Babel atmosphere, hubris chased hard by cacophony. And yet, in the corners of the universe, far from the city, people with hands like ours are building things.