End of the circle.

Eyes look your last! Take your last embrace of five o'clock warm sun polished stone. Because there will be no more sunshine to breathe. These are the last bells heard from Harkness. The chorus of me, Nostra Damus, and Babe Ruth chant, "It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine." Tonight time stops. At my time 10:23, it's lights out. Stepping in front, blinded by the beam, we'll trip and unplug the lamp. We will fall on a full form. In a battle of representations, earth's shadow suffocates sun's mirror. Perfectly planar with lunar and solar bodies, orbits oddly in tune, a lunar eclipse, erratic, will erase light. A total eclipse of the moon is a sign someone centuries ago, in the dark ages, would have read right by candlelight. It's a flicker of the apocolypse that will flame if the Red Sox win tonight. Eight straight, it's so absurd I'm starting to enjoy it like some French drama. Au revoir, goodbye, the world's ending. Frost favours fire, but if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of human hate and stupidity to say that for icing on the apocolypse cake, Tuesday might suffice.