Ruins

The old campus.

Is that what they’re calling it now?

That’s what I’m calling it. It’s almost deserted.

They’ll moving the History of Art next. And English Literature.

The days of the humanities are numbered. They don’t know it yet. The writing’s on the wall. It’s already ended. Spiritually. It’s over.

Do you think?

The humanities are in the past. Come on. It’s inevitable. It’s thermodynamics. Everything … dissipates. They’re just following the logic of all things.

None of them spoke up for us – the other subjects. None of them objected to our Organisational Management move. First they came for the philosophers, and I kept silent …

So they deserve what they get. The humanities deserve it. Why should we give a fuck?

It’s always ruins with us. We’ve always come after it, the real thing. The party’s always and already over. Everything’s in the past.

Except we’ve been invited to a party in the ruins. A postgraduates’ party.

Why did they want to invite us? We’re so old …

Maybe the postgraduates are planning something. They’re very mysterious.

A party – is that what we really need?

You’ve got to admit, it’s intriguing.

A saving power party – that’s what they called it on the invites.

When the darkness grows, there too grows the saving power. That old cliché.

Who is it they want to save?

Themselves. All of us. The whole universe. I don’t fucking know.

Well, it’s too late for the campus. It’s all … just … ruins.

Sure: the darkness grows, the desert grows, all that stuff.