The shift is coming soon. Dr. David Carter knows it.
However, he is a geologist, so “soon” to him means anywhere from tomorrow to one thousand years from now.
People are dying. Doctors Jordan Abellard and Jillian Brookwood are standing at the edge of Super-AIDS. Or are they?
They will not be able to figure it out unless they can get an authorization signed, and soon. But they are peons, and no one is paying attention to them.
Whole species died at the last polar shift 65 million years ago. Right now, Dr. Becky Sorenson has some seriously mutated frogs in her lab.
In Los Angeles, bees are making abnormal columns on the side of the freeways.
In Georgia, birds are migrating out of season.
It all makes a sick kind of sense when the doctors consider that the last magnetic shift strangely coincides with the dinosaur die-out.
And the only similarity in the problems today, is that each is occurring in a “hot spot” a pocket of reverse polarity that tells them all that the shift has arrived. [more][Less]
Since I Came To This Place I Have Been Very Restless, Wasting My
Energies In The Futile Beginning Of Ill-Conceived Books. One Does
Not Settle Down Very Readily At Two And Forty To A New Way Of
Living, And I Have Found Myself With The Teeming Interests Of The
Life I Have Abandoned Still Buzzing Like A Swarm Of Homeless Bees In
My Head. My Mind Has Been Full Of Confused Protests And
Justifications. In Any Case I Should Have Found Difficulties Enough
In Expressing The Complex Thing I Have To Tell, But It Has Added
Greatly To My Trouble That I Have A Great Analogue, That A Certain
Niccolo Machiavelli Chanced To Fall Out Of Politics At Very Much The
Age I Have Reached, And Wrote A Book To Engage The Restlessness Of
His Mind, Very Much As I Have Wanted To Do. He Wrote About The
Relation Of The Great Constructive Spirit In Politics To Individual
Character And Weaknesses, And So Far His Achievement Lies Like A
Deep Rut In The Road Of My Intention. It Has Taken Me Far Astray.
It Is A Matter Of Many Weeks Now--Diversified Indeed By Some Long
Drives Into The Mountains Behind Us And A Memorable Sail To Genoa
Across The Blue And Purple Waters That Drowned Shelley--Since I
Began A Laboured And Futile Imitation Of "The Prince." I Sat Up
Late Last Night With The Jumbled Accumulation; And At Last Made A
Little Fire Of Olive Twigs And Burnt It All, Sheet By Sheet--To
Begin Again Clear This Morning. [more][Less]