The rapture is nigh. We teeter on the precipice of humanity’s end, masturbating feverishly to the pornography of the quietus. We’ll reach climax only when the final blow to all freedom is struck, at which point our individual moans of consummate pleasure will dissolve into a single rhapsody: the diabolical snarl of the Leviathan. Though we stand silently on the platform of the London underground, inside we are each convulsing with glee, with terror, with suicidal enchantment. Autoeuthenasia, or self-deliverance as the hospice field calls it, is our collective project; we grip the yellow handrails as an aching patient grips the switch, declaring in unison our right-to-die.
Our triangular sandwiches and bottled water are the body and blood of the Prophet of Ineluctable Ruin, in whose communion we daily partake. Our anticipation of the coming catastrophe leaks from the walls, gasping with the skidding wheels of the passing trains that shift us, lumpen, from platform to platform.
The iconography is plainly visible. Just open your eyes.