Maybe the matrix of the Earth is disintegrating.
And maybe that disintegration is necessary.
And maybe the great arc of time collapses, pulses like shattered mercury, reorganizes, becomes a wormhole of uncertainty.
And maybe the most fruitful day of the Triduum, is the one we least know how to occupy. The second day while the stone remains in place, and we are on either side of it. On one side, in the silence of the tomb, traveling. On the other side held in a sabbatical tradition of cessation, but nevertheless free to sleep, grieve, or anticipate.
Or maybe, we are the stone through which nothing passes and wherein the speed of light is too slow to comprehend. Here, touching both sides, resisting nothing.