And sired a second sun, then left him to be raised beneath the South Pole by old snow wolves,
Or if the Earth finally warmed up to the sun, and they contrived a moonlit tryst at Venus’s, starting with drinks
And if the Earth sailed home before sunrise so tipsy that the Tropic of Cancer pitched to the Arctic Circle,
Or if the Doomsday Clock finally reached high noon
And we partied, spiking our drinks with the last shriveling icebergs,
Would it matter?
Thinking about the current New Yorker‘s cover and this old tweet:
How will the end come? And what are the signs of its coming? High noon over the North Pole. An unhinged walrus.
— slow reads (@SlowReads) September 4, 2011