The Song of the End of the World, Part I

Summer, 1974

One wakes up in her huge house. The music coming off of the hole on the floor is guitarist Jimmy Page's Jake Holmes-inspired song 'Dazed and Confused', recorded in October 1968 by the blues-and-folk influenced rock music group soon to self-denominate 'Led Zeppelin'. The third verse has just ended and the start of the instrumental break before the guitar solo has just begun.

One lays in bed, face up, legs splayed, arms resting at either side, staring unblinking at the darkness directly above. Every square inch of One's skin is in direct contact with either, a) air, or b) the quilt of the nicely done bed beneath her. It is dark and damp inside the house. One's house consists of a bedroom, the bureau, and a kitchen. A corridor connects the bedroom and the kitchen. There is a porch outside the wall parallel to the corridor. The bureau is located between the bedroom and the kitchen. Darkness and cool, humid air fill the entire house, thanks to One's huge open windows.

The instrumental break plays on.

One slowly sits up. One can hardly see the door of the bureau directly in front, beyond the end of the bed, maybe 6 paces away. One gazes to the right at the portion of the bureau wall at the right of the door, which meets the exterior wall of the house that is to the right. One stares at it. Then, sits on the edge of the bed for roughly two minutes.

The music plays on.

One stands and walks on the creaky, aged, grey wooden floor, two paces and a half to the open window. One looks outside. It is dark and drizzling. One looks out to the vast expanse of grassy field outside the house. The field's color is dark grey. The dark grey field extends from the house to the hardly visible faraway mountains in the distance. They look black from One's house. One turns, just the head, to the left and sees the black mountains in the distance. Then turns it again, this time slowly back, and follows the black mountains and their angular peaks all the way to the right, to the black mountains in the distance. One looks up at the sky. The sky's color is dark grey. The outside world is dark grey, with a black waistband. One extends an arm, the right one, out the window and holds out a finger – index – and, almost immediately, it starts to get wet. After some time, her whole hand and arm are wet. One retracts the wet extended finger and brings the extended wet arm back in and turns to walk. One walks over to the bureau.

The song which was playing has started to play again from the beginning.

One stops at the bureau's door, stares at it a moment. Hands down. Expressionless. One walks past the hole on the floor to the corridor leading to the kitchen. One walks across the corridor to the kitchen. In the kitchen, then walks to the window beside the front door. And looks through it and past the porch outside to the vast expanse of grey, wet grassy field outside the house, which extends to the faraway mountains in the distance. The faraway mountains are snow-capped, and look black from One's house. One turns, just the head, to the left, and sees the mountains in the distance though the length of the empty porch. Then, turns it again, this time to the right, to the black, snow-capped mountains in the distance visible past the end of the porch to the right. The sky above the mountains is dark grey. The outside world is grey, with a black waistband.

The music keeps playing, the drizzle keeps falling outside, the damp drizzly night keeps the whole house in darkness, and the cool and humid air fills the house, stagnant.

The bow section is starting again.

Then, go back to the bureau. One walks back through the corridor and past the hole on the floor to the bureau. One goes into the bureau to brush some teeth. One then washes some face. Then stands on the shower and urinates, grabs the chrome lever shower handle and pulls. Artificial rain! Then sits on the bidet and evacuates. One stands up and regards her making. Caninish. But pachydermically scaled. Clay! Yellow specks, roughly an eight of an inch in size, sporadically dot the material along its curled length. Gold? One presses down on the material. Picks some up. Holds it. Squeezes a rather thick section. Harder section. Material excretes out furiously from between five contracted fingers. One opens the hand. One looks at the palm. Clay! One brings the hand to the face and applies material to it. Picks up some more. Grab. Apply. Repeat. One then washes some face. One then looks in the full-body mirror. One stares back at the figure reflected on the full-body mirror for roughly six minutes. Hands down. Expressionless. One opens the otherwise empty medicine cabinet and takes out One's toonified multicolor plastic comb and pretends to comb some hair. One puts the comb down. One turns the chrome cold water sink handle counterclockwise. Cold water comes out.

One turns around and walks out of the bureau.

The music coming from the hole on the floor is still playing. The guitar solo after the bow section of the instrumental break is now starting.

One walks to the bed. One then turns and walks past the hole on the floor to the corridor and across the corridor to the kitchen. One walks to the front door and stands in front of it. Hands down. Expressionless. The outside world is grey, with a black waistband. One stands in front of the front door looking straight at it, as the music keeps playing, the drizzle keeps falling outside, the damp drizzly night keeps the whole house in darkness, and the cool and humid air fills the house, stagnant.

One then turns to go back to the bedroom. One walks across the corridor to the bed. One sits on the bed, brings both feet up. Slides over to the center of the bed in the darkness. Settles back, with splayed legs in front, head on the bed, and arms to the sides. And closes her eyes.

The music keeps playing, the drizzle keeps falling outside, the damp drizzly night keeps the whole house in darkness, and the cool and humid air fills the house, stagnant.

By now, 'How Many More Times' is almost over.

Why don't you please come home

Why don't you please come home

Why don't you pleasecome home