A doomsday comet
James Potter opens a poem book on a plain.
He is not sure of what is happening. The words in front of him reads I am thinking, or trying to think, about all the imponderable for which we have no answers, yet endless interest all the range of our lives, and it’s and his hands reaches out for his phone, placed carefully on his leg; a leg that has stopped shaking only a few moments after the captain said the words.
The phone rings one, two, three, four, five times.
good for the head no doubt to undertake such meditation; Mystery, after all, is God’s other name, and deserver our
According to his watch, it’s ten thirty in the morning in London. It goes to the voice-mail.
A voice echoes, hey, you reached the voice-mail of Regulus Black. I’ll call you as soon as I can.
considerations surely, But, but— excuse now, please; it’s morning, heavenly bright and my irrepressible heart begs me to hurry on
“Hey Reg…"
into the next exquisite moment.