Ever since the eclipse, I have been unsettled. The eerie light that had befallen the earth and shut the birds up, I must have absorbed into every cell of my body. On that day, I took a plane to London, where I became aware of other Londons, from other times, set in text or in film, so that the city wavered at every corner, never simply the present, but manifold pasts and futures, disaster and possibility. Meanwhile, the unsettling burrowed deeper, rattling loose memories and ancient instincts, other Phils lying dormant, curled at the roots of the tree that I might call my self. Now these other Phils are awake, if groggy, and they are trying to emerge. The tree shakes, in a windless atmosphere, struck by that eerie light, neither day nor night, and what shall happen next? Equinox, flippin hell.




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