Their Hearts Will Not Go On

Today is the 110th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic.

We are all passengers now on a vast technological apparatus that is going under. It goes under slowly, unevenly. Parts of it, paradoxically, are lifted temporarily high in the air, by the dynamic instability of a structure in crisis. Rising to dizzying heights, some first-class passengers experience a temporary exhilaration, not paying much attention to the frantic hammering from deep within the hull, or the faint distant splashing sounds of those already drowning. Those elevated few may amass huge fortunes; they dream of becoming immortal and of vacationing in outer space, for the brief time before the whole vessel breaks apart and disappears forever into the unreachable depths.

Those who do not go down with the ship may find themselves in an environment about as hospitable as a North Atlantic ice field on an April night. There will be no Carpathia, however, steaming towards them to rescue survivors. Perhaps a few lifeboats, which had better be well provisioned. If you find yourselves on one, steer towards whatever land remains above water, and find a way to live there, together.