the guttering corpse candles have rendered down to congealed tallow, the towering stacks and the deafening, gargantuan machines of destruction are stalled, silent sculptures against a uniform charcoal grey sky. The dust not move, no wind stirs the ashes, the solar storm has consumed itself in one final magnesium white glare, the dragging gravity of the black moon has fallen away. Ground zero, again. So this is how the normal folk feel, like everything that ever was has ended, like everything that is yet to be has not yet begun, perfect pre-nascent stasis, life’s mildewed waiting room, some enormous black scythe sliced the caps from the waves, left them stranded and defanged in a becalmed ocean. Nothing stirs above, nothing stirs below. My own true voice rises up from the dampened chatter, the dispersed static, and I fear I may find it has nothing to say after all. Was all I was ever doing just shouting out a confused and stricken description of my pain? If that pain is just another marionette with cut strings slumped amongst the cold wreckage, then what is there left for me to strive to articulate?