Shipped to Hell without a hand-spike

There is crisis looming, I guess, but I have spent most of my life thinking such a thing, tut-tutting as I roll with the rolling news and saying to myself: HOW ARE WE ALL GOING TO GET OUT OF THAT ONE? "Shipped to Hell without a hand-spike", as the saying goes.

But we are all still here, rolling with the rocks as they drop on our collective foot one by one, day by day, sometimes more slowly, often quicker. Indeed, I myself know, deep down inside, that the ultimate rock, hanging above my head from my own personal Ligottian or Damocletian or Gordian Knot, will eventually crush the whole of me, not just my foot!

The short sharp shock never seems to come, not yet anyway. The only climax is thus unique because it actually never arrives however certain I am that, based on the evidence, it will do so. Evidence is everything. Evidence is self-contained as well as potentially infinite. Evidence is sometimes unnoticed or unweighed in the balance. Evidence is eternal. Evidence grows and builds upon itself. Evidence of the end is never complete until it ends, self-evidently.

"What are you trying to say?" a voice suddenly asks. The room has become peopled with those few individuals seated, listening to me talk to myself, not reading all these words aloud from a pre-conceived text but rapping, jamming, extemporising, improvising an 'ad hoc', on-the-hoof huddle of humanity.

I am abruptly aware of a lady staring at me, while mentally screwing her invisible finger into the side of her head as a gesture of what she thinks of MY head, no doubt.

Another lady's mind wanders. I can sense it loose somewhere near.

A gentleman fidgets, picks up his just-completed drink of tea, peers into it, puts it down again, as if failing to find any evidence in the patterns of he knew not what. If I were reading this aloud from something pre-written, I would stop and try to tell him that there is more scope in the room's empty flower vase to find out what he needs to know about the looming crisis, the only climax, the short sharp shock. "Nothingness has its own more meaningful random pattern", as the saying goes. And I look up just in time to see him, then the ladies, burrowing into it.

Nothing rocks. Evidently.