It is a cold Thursday morning in the Renaissance and you are about to die. Although you are young and healthy, and slept soundly all night, you know as you stand transfixed at your bed-room window that you will be dead very soon. Why? Because the sky is dark, yet also weirdly glowing, filled with a massive whis-pering rush of wings and the muscular bodies of angels. The grave?yard to the right of your house is a chaotic jumble of ruptured turf, fallen gravestones, and of naked men, women and children whose new bodies all look immaculately sound and undamaged.2 The Day of Judgement has come. Presently the world will burn, and time will cease. Needless to say, at such a moment there is no question of running to one’s family and friends, telling them tearfully how much one has loved them. Rather, as automatically as someone ducking gunfire, you fall to your knees and pray, rapidly and ceaselessly, soon drenched in sweat on this cold surprising morning.
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