Pulse Survey

On a scale of one to ten, we’re a three at most. Stronger trees are still standing, and unexplained absences are about average for the time of year. The time of year itself is uncertain, with snow and sunflowers occupying the same narrow vista, and migrating birds coming and going with neither rhyme nor reason. Towers collapse, along with the social structures they were built to serve, and old and young alike are prone to tumbling down. Yet, on the other hand, whole new lands are rising from the deep, and instances of metamorphosis into birds are well below mythical levels. Politicians, naturally, prevaricate over stasis and rupture, setting out imprecise promises for the benefit of all and sundry, while installing safe rooms in their undeclared second homes. On a scale of one to a hundred, the distinctions are impossible to see. On a scale held high by a stained-glass angel, we’re barely tipping the balance. On a scale glinting on a blind fish’s back, we’ll never see the surface again. 

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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