O tempo passa, o fio queima, o potencial minga, as janelas fecham-se, os sonhos morrem; uma contagem decrescente de possibilidades, que acelera constantemente.
Tudo envelhece, decai, apodrece. As energias esgotam-se. A entropia triunfante. Há menos árvores, menos água, menos gelo, menos animais e menos tempo para (pensar que podemos) parar o provavelmente já inevitável colapso.
O futuro está mais curto. Feliz ano novo!
“[…] they had witnessed a thing against which time would not prevail.
He meant a thing to be remembered, but the young apostate by the rail at his elbow had already begun to sicken at the slow seeping of life. He could see the shape of the skull through the old man’s flesh. Hear sand in the glass. Lives running out like something foul, nightsoil from a cesspipe, a measured dripping in the dark. The clock has run, the horse has run, and which has measured which?[…] Suttree went out through the kitchen and through the ruined garden of the old road. Reprobate scion of doomed Saxon clans, out of a rainy day dream surmised. Old paint on an old sign said dimly to keep out. Someone must have turned it around because it posted the outer world. He went on anyway. He said that he was only passing through.”
Suttree, Cormac McCarthy.