The cell phone was buzzing to the tune of AC/DC - a loud and belligerent ring. She tried to turn it off, not a difficult feet since sunshine was not a common occurrence in Prince Rupert. She was in a completely familiar place. She was surrounded by her beloved totem poles in the middle of the square. It's nice to be home. Her computer bag laying on the ground bore the Aperture Science logo. Slowly the fog began to settle. Ruti put the call on speaker phone. "Yellow." "Ms. Ruti?" a lady's voice said. "I hope it's not to early?" Wide awake Ruti didn't have to look at the clock. She new it was breakfast time. Her stomach was grumbling, and she felt lightheaded. "This is the police department. I apologize for contacting you, but we have something you should see. It isn't urgent, but, you might want to come quickly." Ruti still felt woozy. Something strange? Her eyes focused on a flyer next to one of the totem poles.

Favorite long coats

The Doctor's Other Time Machine

Tempus Domini

The End of Time

it is time to go, doctor
for you must take the longest journey
for the voyage of oblivion awaits you
It is the end, it is oblivion

The long journey to oblivion
darkness, up and down and sideways
the deepening black
darkening, utterly dark,

there is nowhere to go
there is nothing to see
there is no direction any more
find an exit from the fallen

the waters of the end
our soul cowers naked in the dark rain
already the flood is upon us
into the house filling the heart

the deep and lovely quiet
and soon it will rise on the world
still blacker upon the soundless,
ungurgling, dark and endless ocean

out of eternity a thread separates itself
The upper darkness is heavy as the lower
for there's the dawn, the cruel dawn
on the outside world

that fumes a little pallor upon the dark.
Is it illusion?
does the pallor fume A little higher?
the flood subsides,

and the body
Swings the heart renewed
where still we sail darkly
even so, a flush of yellow and strangely,

darkness at one with A flush of rose,
and the whole thing starts again.
our strength leaves us,
to bid farewell to one's own

O chilled wan soul, a flush of rose.
gone! somewhere you will need it.
for we cannot steer and have no port
the end is washing in through the breaches

on the blackness, Nowhere! out of oblivion
like a worn sea-shell emerges strange and lovely
faltering and lapsing on pink floyd
even of oblivion