Nobody knew what hit us. In fact, I'm one of the last ones who was here when we got hit. The world, such as it is, is made of children now. They weren't here to get hit. Their parents were, some of them. All the parents are dead. I only am escaped alone to tell thee. And who art thou? Who cares? The kids don't.

I'm not a historian, or wasn't before. I am a musician, or used to be. But music went the way of history. Music was sound under control, given shape. History was the mess and redundance of life made understandable. All gone now. Noise and mess, all that's left. Who cares? That's what the kids say.