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The minute you start reading this, the sun may already have gone out, but you won’t know it yet You’ve been granted a whole eight minutes and nineteen seconds before news of its death reaches you That’s how long it takes for the light to travel from there After that, it’ll get dark Nine seconds have passed so far What can you do? Jump up, grab the most important things, your phone, money, passport Wait a second, where do you think you’re going? Drop that luggage now Call your loved ones, they don’t know yet Inform them of the end of the world and this gift of (now less than seven) minutes, which they have no inkling of Tell them to leave immediately if they’re nearby… to go where? so you can be together… but seven minutes isn’t enough time Better to stay wherever they are and hide under the table Everything seems ridiculous You don’t have any experience with the sun going out It’s not like the power going out Tell them you love them and that you’ll find each other in the darkness What else? – you want one last taste of all your favourite things, but you only have time to grab a spoonful of cherry jam out of the fridge The cat is hiding somewhere It knows, too You open the window Outside, people are frittering away their last minutes of sun You feel like screaming God damn it, can’t you see that this light isn’t the same? But you don’t do that, either And what will happen afterwards? Will the planets scatter, will the oceans overflow, will an eternal arctic winter fall? And will it happen immediately, or will we be granted a little more time? A few more minutes, an hour in the impenetrable darkness Are you still there? Let’s count down the final seconds together – thirteen, twelve, eleven (I’m purposely writing them in words to stretch out the time), ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three (hold tight and farewell, if we don’t see each other afterwards), two, one…   If you’re