There is an earth-sized, spinning globe between where we will start and where we will finish. An unsteady, future-horizon that marks an end-point. Between there and now, is the distance in a picture postcard. An impossibly flat place, stamped with glossy sky.

Each ocean spreads and thins as the globe turns away from us. We will lose a day at the beginning, and then we will get it back at the end. An extra last day.

Over the distance, the span of which is a constant guess, is an invented end.

An author wrote that we live waiting to die. That we can see our own end, always in our periphery. That we have built our cities to meticulously count down our own deaths; to track every second that we live waiting to die. Like when Elvis sings about the flaming star that sits over his shoulder. He can’t look around, he must ride forward because if he catches sight of the star that is following him he will know that he is going to die.