Pandemic Prose

They say now the future is become ash of all the fires we lit to get here.  They are children reading palms that have known only games of four sided dice and cards with pictures on them.  Here is the place we have always been, which is the crystallized all-moment of creation.  Forwards and backwards always were, were always going to be. The shuddering light of consciousness is merely wriggling through this fourfold solid, giving illusion of movement.  There is no movement; there is but moment.  I’ve a dice with pictures of crackers and slides in my pocket.  I flick it at these vulgar historians and their mouths fling open, tongues forming a y axis to their twitching noses; they are like pac man or for base representations.  They slobber and I bid them away.