Trillians: the bar at the end of the universe. The last bar, where it’s always the last night – the last night before the end. Where we’re always in mourning for everything’s that happened. Where we’re always looking back at our lives and the shape of our lives. When we’re always asking ourselves what it was all for? Whether we made the best use of our time on Earth? Did we act for the good? For the True? Did we serve the Beautiful?
Trillians: the last judgement bar, where we console ourselves for what we did. For what we did not do. Where we ask forgiveness in general. Where we’re determined to confess. To convert. Because there’s still time. There’s still one night left. Because there’s enough time for repentance.
Trilliians, where It’s always end time funk night. Where it’s always Ball of fucking Confusion night. Where it’s always dancing with tears in our eyes night. Holding each other. Weeping openly.
Trillians, where it’s always singalong time. Geordie knees-up time. Singing the old postgraduate songs. The old postdoctoral songs. Singing the new junior lecturer’s songs. The European philosophy tribulation songs. Singing the deep songs of the doomed humanities. Requesting Klaus Nomi’s Death so we can fall into each other’s arms, weeping for the humanities.
Work in Progress 