In the funny way life has of posturing itself over the blankest canvas of the notion of "is not", our imagination plays life back to us as it happens; in sepia tones with archetypal nodes sticking out everywhere into the mist of considering and relating to.
Anticipating the beginning of time just seems ridiculous from among the currents... as if you've been given the right to deposit your precious panic for order into the general bank of the vast unknown. Was it your father or mine, staring out that window into the countryside of the 1970's? Was it a sister or a leftover mother who comforted you on sidewalks? Is it philosophy or faith when I shake my head into mirrors muttering "I'm OK, I'm OK"?