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it is Wednesday all day until it isn’t. never had much attachment to the days before now, saw them as the headings for collections of twenty-four novellas – who remembers days in memories? it is always the weather, the time, how your shoes pinched, how the birds sang, a memory is a picture of a thousand pieces kept in a box marked Friday. inconsequential until it isn’t anymore. the world ended in such a drawn-out way, you started counting down the days – not the hours and not the nights, weather and windfall, the absence of birds, the pinch of the solar system, all inconsequential. instead, those novellas penned in the last weeks of the world were just endless lists of Monday, Monday, Monday. Wednesday, Thursday, Sunday – unpicking forgotten gods from the roots, scalpel- wielding philologists finding poetry in phonemes and semantics. centuries of human evolution summarised in a chain of seven words: the order, the gods, the shared linguistic genes, the music,