Epilogue.

I have over-used the fact that starlight takes a long time to strike the eyes on this blog, and I make no apologies for that.

'Bad news comes from the stars,' I said in the past: by the time I realised that the relationship with Bluefish was in need of repair, it was already too late. Something had broken us long before, and I was only ever aware of the fracture when nothing could be done except to say my goodbyes.

'Bad news comes from the stars,' I said in the past: the domino effect whose denouement was the end of Yugoslavia had been set in motion long before most people realised that Slobodan Milosevic's June 15 speech was more than just posturing. By then, it was too late; too late to stop the movement which had already begun but had not yet completed.

To stop a punch from hitting you in the face, you must be able to anticipate. It is no use moving when the knuckles are inches from your nose. No, you need to duck while the arm is just starting its swing. In such situations, speed of thought is everything.

Even after the fist had made its impact, and Slovenia had announced its secession from the federation, people were still filling in their nationality as 'Yugoslav' on the census. This is to reject the status quo, and to embrace history. It is to look into the eyes of the dead, and smile instead of recoiling.

I wonder what the reaction would be in Podgorica, or Novi Sad, or Split, or Banja Luka, if a present-day citizen announced himself as a proud Yugoslav? You're showing your age, you fucking dinosaur - she's been dead for almost two decades!

In my mind, not only would there be laughter at the fossil making a pledge towards such a long-gone entity, but there would be questions raised as to how real Yugoslavia was anyway.

This post-First World War relic, thrown together to appease various national interests? This is how you define yourself? You are worshipping an accident!

The past has traction, and it is spine-tinglingly exciting when we feel it beneath our feet. Yet answering its call can lead only to misery, confusion, and ridicule. Better to throw the census in the bin than to answer 'Yugoslav'.

Serbia.

Things have never been the same in Serbia since June 15, 1389, the day their empire died.

I'll spare you the details of the Battle of Kosovo Polje, when the Serbs, led by Prince Lazar, were butchered in a matter of hours by Ottoman forces on their own land.

Every June 15 in Serbia sees a commemoration of the events of more than 600 years ago, and, in the minds of at least some, the wish for a restitution of the pre-1389 state of affairs.

There are two things here apparent about the nature of people and their relationship with the past - two things I shall expand upon if the energy to write properly ever returns. Perhaps this morning is the start of that process, but most likely not.

It seems there is a psychological tic which causes us to mark the end of events, when everything is almost played out and only the tragic denouement is acknowledged. The point in history where the decline of some system or other set in, presaging an inevitable conclusion, is usually overlooked, perhaps in the case of Serbia, the death of Dusan the Mighty some three decades earlier,

Secondly, the longing for a return to the pre-1389 Serbia: without Kosovo, there exists but a trepanned microstate, embarrassing in its illegitimacy. Only the restoration of the 14th-century borders can cure it.

Again, we (because the brief history of Serbia is an analogy for the history of everything) are guilty of selecting an arbitrary point in time, and declaring that it represents a zenith.

Thus affected, the only aim of the future is a recapitulation to a specific past. Macroscopically, the politics of entire nations can be fuelled by this mania. Zooming inwards, the lives of individuals can roil on similar private, internal drama.