John Lennon is alive and well, living in the mouth of Kevin Parker. Lonerism stands for redefinition: a party of two called metempsychosis. Or maybe there are more. A personage behind each molar and incisor, like the geriatric party in John Malkovich’s overcrowded head. The undulating, swirling sound of “Lonerism” marks out a zone, an evasive psychedelic place where anything is possible. It’s where artists go when they die. If Jesus was an artist, his parables and miracles were certainly his art, and when he exited the stage, he spoke of preparing a place for the rest of us, back where he came from: “the eye hath not seen, nor ear heard.” The heteretopic zone of “Lonerism” is the place he was preaching about. All marvelous things superimposed into one. Time and space no obstacle. Linear history overcome. Yesterday is today and today is tomorrow and tomorrow is yesterday. We are here, there, and everywhere: simultaneity never chiming finer, like a finely tuned Grandfather clock. St. Michael’s bells. Time running counter-counter-clockwise, in all time zones with Hindu-Arabic numerals. Cuckoo-cuckoo. 3:06. “Lonerism” is a sign of the apocalypse. A portent of things to come.