Last night, it rained, and the crisp morning air is filled with a hint of petrichor and the aroma of coffee. I am sitting outside on a coffee shop’s veranda on the beautiful open campus where I work. I got here early and the sun has only just started to rise. The sky is pale and I am surrounded by autumnal trees, all fiery reds, oranges, browns, and yellows—and a few stubborn greens, the last pieces of summer. If you ever feel overwhelmed by simulacra, I recommend coming to your senses.
In my hand is a pen slowly being emptied of black ink as I guide it to scratch the smooth tooth of a cream-colored page in a notebook. Lines connect and become letters and words. Later, I will type this into a computer, and my words, these echoes of the thoughts I am thinking now and the feelings I am feeling now, will find a home in the digital realm. And eventually they, like the leaves scattered around me by rain and wind, will be distributed into the world. And then, hopefully, someone—you there, perhaps—will read them to be stirred by them. I have a few books with me, but we’ll get to those later. I honestly can’t imagine a more serene atmosphere to contemplate the end of the world.
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