Apocalypse of Jude

Jude stands upon the old footbridge, arms rested on its walls, a stick in his hand that leaves the appearance of one fishing. Behind him is the road from the town that feels to him like an arid desert, while ahead of him lies the road leading to where Saint Mary’s keeps the hours with her bells. As he looks down into the stone cobbled canal, he spies a rat creeping its slimy belly through the weeds along the bank.

“London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down.”

He carries on singing to himself until the rat is lost in the vegetation.

/well/ /let me at least go and set my lands in order/

But he still feels no assurance that the dark night ahead is going to be met with a clean soul.

Wasteland Mix: Fragment 111