Where I come from there are no
There is the ground and the sky
our feet and our hands.
Disaster, grief, despair, old age. The 21st Century’s Apocalypse. Beauty is a natural consequence of this war, the aesthetic fallout from the nuclear havoc of age. But it isn’t just age, no. Beauty’s tragedy lies in the whole of the natural world. The leaves and blooming flowers, the expanse of cyan beside crystalline sand. Age withers all. This is our Apocalypse.