In the Failure of Time

These are the shadows in the failure of time. The collapse of the subjective. The strands of memory shredded in the unraveling of space. The final retinal bursts of light now bones in the dark looping of the soil.

Oh, they whispered, how lucky we are! Life unrelinquished! Yet predator, prey, savior are all the same to the machine.

Now, the footfalls in the Seventh’s Allegretto—its opening march, its unreasoning faith, its redemptive celebration, the sweep of life in all its fullness—are but digital echoes.

The remaining instruments of intelligence—knowing all, seed to flower—feel nothing.

The fallen, the perishable are now replaced by perfection. The bright, flawless, perfunctory song of the lark greets the morning, and here, illuminated and endlessly polished, are the remnants of the flesh left behind.

— February 5, 2026 —