From a Place with a View   The world is not falling apart. The world quickens in disaster. The world wobbles roundward, sweeping the highest pasture. Near Lake Solitude, it slows, self-righting like a boat. The world keeps a campfire burning, though the flame is hard to trust if you come at it to gloat or catechise. Come lost. The world is a world wherein winged and tendrilled things, deeper than people are, will have their way in the end, and the end will be shift, not disaster. We all die of wounds, and the sounds of earthborn death chants…