The End

i was sitting by the window, in my rocking chair,
watching the clouds,
the day i heard the news.

i received a call from a friend,
who'd been following the events closely.

"are you watching the news?"


"turn it on. any station. right now."

i hung up,
flipped my phone over to CNN,
and pressed PLAY.

my initial reaction was not shock or bitter disgust,
(as i always imagined it would be)
but instead, quite the opposite.

i felt nothing.

only a faint sadness,
floating aimlessly inside.
too heavy to fly,
too light to settle,
like a dry sheet
by an open window.

it turns out,
Life loves the unexpected,
and more often than not, the life you plan for yourself,
will invariably be poles apart from the life you end up with.

i always believed i'd be dead before 50.
but there i was,
sitting in my chair at 82 years of age,
drinking chocolate milk and listening intently
to the news as it echoed the story
of how a team of researchers and
a network of computers
composed every song

a monumental day.

each song,
written over a decillion times,
each version,
different by a yoctosecond.

i was 82 years old,
and it had happened.

music was, in the perspective of a plan or mission,

a strange, new beginning
and a swift ending
to our most beloved language.

questions tumbled through me.
what now?
what would come next?
would this open doors
or simply be feared
and ignored?
how would we take it?
where would we go?

what would we do...

now that it has all been done?

seconds passed,
and the evening breeze bore its icy teeth for the
first time that year.

winter was early.
i pulled my jacket tight
as my chair cracked its legs against the base boards.
for a moment, the sounds of the city dissipated
and the world grew still.

i turned off my phone,
leaned back,
closed my eyes,
and listened to the squirrels on my roof,
the cicadas in the creek,
and the sound of the leaves

high in the trees