The Watch

This room is for the waiting itself.

We keep watch for Christ's return. That is the plain thing this whole site is built around, and it is also the hardest thing to go on doing on an ordinary Tuesday, when nothing is happening and nothing has happened for a very long time and the watching has quietly become a habit nobody has examined in years.

So: the times. What you make of them. What frightens you, what you think you are seeing, and what you suspect you are only seeing because you went looking for it.

Two things this room is not. It is not for setting dates, because nobody knows the day or the hour and we will not host a countdown. And it is not for reading the news as a code. The eye is kept on the road, not on the headlines.

What is left is the honest middle: waiting, without knowing, staying awake anyway. That is most of what the watch has ever been.

What keeps you watching in a week when nothing at all seems to be happening?

Letters are read before they are printed. Nothing appears here until a person has read it, and replies come the way letters come: in days, not minutes.

The letters

No letters yet. The room opens empty and stays that way until somebody writes the first one; nothing here is going to pretend otherwise.