I have become an old man without noticing the onset of it all. I am content with this. I would never wish to be young again, so rife it was–in my own case–with ignorance, absurdity, and nonsense. I mean no offense to the young. The young will ever be the young.
So it is that I hide in this antique chicken house on my extinct family’s farm from which the last chicken departed decades ago, dreaming of México. The middle of nowhere. In the winter the wood-burner warms me as the wind howls outside. In the summer the sliding door is open upon an endless sky, and the fans cool me.
Homo sapiens is perhaps the most rapacious and destructive species ever to have spawned upon this planet. I am one specimen of it. Still, let it be so.
I ride this splendid little spaceship into my own oblivion with the faith that it possesses an infinite capacity to cleanse itself of us, to right itself, and bring forth new life of unimaginable diversity over geologic time until its own extinction. Therein lies my own faith. The immediate affairs of this species in that context are laughably trivial. The only record of our existence will ultimately be a thin stratum in an escarpment thrown up by the pressures of the underworld, composed of compressed plastic and the artificial rubber of untold numbers of discarded tires.