Scientists assembled - in a clean room in New Mexico working tuition time - a three-thousand megapixel sword in the reflection of whose blade we saw the bleeding comet and, flipping the hilt in our hands, saw it spark as it traversed the edge, and from its position knew our place.
The universe instructed us to sing and we refused. Instead we watched its jaunty hand tick time away and call for decrescendo. We played with bombs.
If it all feels perilous, it is.
Watching the white face of the moon for mushroom clouds we rutted, and learned new recipes and held out forks to one another saying “taste”.
And when the fear has passed - which it will for the world is perpetual because we live in it - it will be locked untouchable in the past where fear cannot go. The fear instead will be: of the million flavours we have made and fed each other, is any a part of us still?