You can never prepare for it, it's much too quick, and all of your whistling in the dark is worth no more than so much rippled wind. But if you can't turn the self's big slow unblinking eye towards it you also can't turn it away, and besides it's hard to tell the difference between those two well-intentioned pilotings. It's not as if there are things you can actually do, but there is the idea of action, of cause, effect and agency, of great tidal waves of time full of salt and fish and weeds, and as they now tell, of plastics, to deal with and it won't go away, keeps beating like London's mighty heart.