Of the end times it is written that there will be rivers of blood and you'll be able to see up Auntie Mabel's skirt as she is lifted bodily up to heaven and that God will fuck off and leave the righteous sinners alone for a thousand years to get their freak on, get their freak on get their get their get their freak on before coming back and cock slapping us all back to Calvinist Heaven (aka Catholic Hell).
It is written.
But words on a page lack that certain je ne sais quois that one finds in the words of the teeth and of the belly. The problem, you see, is seeing. Seeing is believing, and belief is a terrible idea. "Seeing" is your brain masturbating itself with logical and experiential paradox, and won't even let you remember it in the morning because it's so ashamed.
The internet lends itself so well to this circumstance. There is all here, in the crazy twilight fringes of human consciousness that spreads itself out by all means expedient, even the artificiality of a series of tubes streaming a series of ones and zeros to a series of credulous and hungry others. There's a grey goop out there already after all. It's last years stew that you keep throwing left overs into that in theory if you have the ladling skills of Constance the Ninja School Dinner Lady you could pull whatever meal you want out of. In reality it's an indistinct and frankly disgusting amalgam of all of our bits of throwaway consciousness.
Other things have been written of. The Lost Highway, a purity born of sterility and fear and undying hatred. The Lost Highway is even more lost to me now than Curly.
We wrote of prison cells and shiny golden balls. We wrote of Diabeetus and Assburgers and Jenkem.
It was written, and it was True.
But no, the True Story of End Times come not from the pages of the ever maddened mooks and mayhem as once I believed.
I know now that they are spat out in retching all too human semi digested rivers of bile and poison. They are left in the gutters to attract rats and bankers and other vermin. They are visceral and have meaning only while your oesophagus is squeezing them up in the precise reverse process by which sausages and laws are made.
The end times are yours to tell of, and if you'll excuse me I need to go brush my teeth with an Oxford English Dictionary. I think I got a few past participles and some stray gall flavoured grammar stuck up my gums.