before the bomb

One day in my lifetime, the bomb will drop. I would rather write about love and sex, about betrayal and desire, but time has become for me a sort of radar of doom, ticking backwards, not from whatever happens in the future, but from the moment I became me, conscious, fearful and determined. The ultimate attraction is time, and it leaves me spinning alone into nothing. Who will describe me properly? On what shore do I stand as a beacon to every new thinker? Look out, you are crashing, and time will spill from your veins without replacement. You are bound to nothing, attached to nothing, so why should you keep feeling and loving and fighting?