Fuck, it’s cold. Where am I? Bugs are biting my ankles. Sometimes waves of heat and nausea take over and I lie down in the grass until my skin feels the cold again and I hoist myself onto my feet and keep going. South, I think, I hope.

We’re all going to die. There are moments when I can’t see the difference between me and the Swans. We’re here together, traveling through time at the same rate, one second per second. Slow as slow gets, but it always feels too fast for me. All of us are moving toward death at precisely the same pace. It’s just that they had a head start. They had the sixties and used it all up in just ten years. They used up Morocco and Paris and Venice Beach, Times Square and the Bowery. They used it all, breathed it in deep, down to the end, leaving behind only roaches and ash. Whatever I do will be an anemic imitation of what they did.

But maybe I’m wrong. I’ve never been to Morocco or Paris. There could be something left, maybe even enough for me. Nothing, then, for anyone who might come next, but I don’t think anyone’s coming next (although, that’s probably what they thought). Even if they do, there literally might not be any Paris to go to. Better get it while I can.

By the time I spot Lolly’s house I’m shivering and wobbly. The wind has picked up. Down the steps and along the path, trying to keep as far from the edge as I can. I stumble a few times and my heart beats fast as the waves crash hard against the cliff.

The relief is wonderful when I get into the kitchen. I kick off my shoes and curl up on the carpet in the living room. I lie there taking deep breaths until my goose bumps go down and a wave of nausea passes. Eventually I get myself up and I’m making my way to bed when something catches my eye. I double-take. The green light on the answering machine is blinking. It really is. I lunge at it and hit the play button, my heart positively galloping.

The long beep stings. The tape clicks and plays: Testing, just a test to check that this piece-of-shit twentieth-century technology is still operational . . . I’ve never been so disgusted by the sound of my own voice.