We live in the future present, waiting for the Molotov cocktail of fanaticism to explode, a bomb fuelled with our liberal democratic lies.
Western powers subvert their own and others’ ethics, declaring war on all alterity.
A Papal Bull is issued, “The world ended on the ninth of November 1989”.
Three thousand six hundred miles away the Ark of the Covenant is unearthed beneath the sands of Israel by Arab diggers blind to its ancient hieroglyphic text. As the Ark is released from its tomb of dry sand it reconnects with swirling currents in the sky and lightening is drawn down, striking its golden form in flash after flash of forking brilliance. The Ark slowly fuses and liquid gold seeps back into the sand releasing a toxic cloud of gas that is lethal to all who contact it.
Some think these events are a sign from God, others a meteorological anomaly.
Waiting for the coming of the Messiah is eventually boring. He never comes, He never calls, He never leaves a message; His promise of Democracy a fading commitment, His promise of Communism now a broken compact.
Promises, promises, we build our lives on promises. We promise to pay the bearer on demand, five pounds, ten pounds, twenty pounds, fifty pounds, whatever is avowed by false notes of promise crumpled in our pockets, folded in our wallets and pressed close to our hearts.
The Evil One is evermore the banker, always the bearer of that promise of false gold.
The dog is still looking for its master.
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