I had a decision to make. The world was ending, again. It had ended several times before. To be more accurate: many worlds had ended many times. Anyway, on one hand, there was the imminent end of the world, a proof of concept with viral streaming capacity. And then there was my desk. Where I was sitting. I’d say about 33% of my life had been spent sitting at this desk, and more than half my life had spent sitting at a desk, many desks compounded. So there I was sitting at my desk, news of the world ending circulating in my ears through mosquito-feed, yet what was I supposed to do? I did what I had done so many other times before. And hope to keep doing after the world ends again (and again). I wrote. I was rote and habitually ritual in that sense. I sat down at my desk every day and wrote. You say hell is freezing over? Put on your overcoat, pick up your pen, and write about it. Or write about heaven, or purgatory, or childhood, while hell freezes over. A plague is spreading and claiming countless lives. Pray and write. Or don’t pray and write. But write. Writing to me is the energetic equivalent of playing music. I intend to keep making music, come hell or high water, come Amazon disaster or A.I. mindrape. Keep at it.  Trust in the words and music and process, even when the ship is sinking, or especially when the ship is sinking. You will die in real-time. Your heart will break in real-time. But your words will resound within timeless. These are not only lyrics to go (nod to the Tribe), but lyrics that go on and on. Same as the music. Same as all creative, life-giving acts. There is a dizzy limitlessness to the whole thing. You die within the enclosure of strict limits. You are immortal within limitlessness. The world is ending. Its glaciers carving scythes. There is a tag slated for your big toe. Gravity is prattling on about morass and void, its two favorite words. The world is ending. Okay, then: can you sit at your desk and complete a sentence? Good. Can you add a sentence to the first one, and then another? Excellent. Soon you have a paragraph. Can you keep doing this, your desk aligned to the greatest moveable feast you will ever know, built from words that dream and dance to no end. Think about that. Words dancing and dreaming to no end in a world ending. The world ends. The words don’t. The dancing don’t. The dreaming don’t. Stack your don’ts into a creative yes. A resounding yes. My friend Crow assured me that the words we put out there, they keep on traveling, to the ghosts and ancestors, to the stars and beyond. I believe in Crow’s vision. That is why I am sitting here at this desk, writing. I have made my decision for today. Tomorrow’s decision is worlds away.