Things fall apart, Yeats wrote. He didn’t know the half of it.
He was obsessed with trivia: Humanity, Good and Evil, angry imaginary gods. But it’s not just some rickety social construct coming apart at the seams. It’s the whole fucking universe. There’s no second coming for our cosmos, no Big Crunch after the Bang, no comforting closed cycle of annihilation and renewal. Einstein’s accursed constant pushes galaxy from galaxy, world from world, in a spiral of endless increasing isolation; it may have been Let There Be Light back at the overture but after all this drama the final curtain falls on an empty stage. We get lonelier with each second. And if somebody doesn’t do something in the next ten or fifteen billion years, everyone else ― everything else ― just vanishes.
If I say yes, maybe I can get a head start.