Marching about, walking to the shop, running round the block, turning pedals at less than the optimal rate. Counting steps to oblivion, ticking off moments of mortality. Arbitrary factors presented as design for living.
Outside, events appear.
Viewed by three trainee guide dogs with their handlers listening to instruction from an intonation-sapped and lifeless script performance while my legs go by them at slow pace. The Golden Retrievers managing to look attentive perhaps in the hope a treat will be offered. Then, knees and ankles are ignored by cemetery dwelling Jackdaws as they hop and jump between the gravestones scuffing in the grass for insects.
Being baked in the sun and wheezing like a consumptive, the relics of the deceased beneath my technical sports footwear don’t give a monkeys. Dog walkers are everywhere, hordes of dogs. A large black, white, and patchy cat with a bell and half a moustache plays with an invisible prey. Even through bunged up nasal tubes the heat amplifies into a constant oppressive fug the smell of some giant and invisible dog shit.
Senses, data, representation.
The odd collection of estate agents signs, not just the usuals, Blundells, Saxton Mee, Haybrook, but ones with completely odd names. Like they’ve been made up, faked so it appears as though there is huge activity in the housing market.
A feeling of unreality starts to wash over, is it all a construct, are the houses even real or just rickety facades, wooden hoardings painted to appear as more tangible structures. Maybe there is no such thing as streets, roads, houses. Perhaps our reality is all for show and we’re being filmed for the real audience of drugged puppets living in chrome and white tunnels through the granite subsurface paying for their TV in a real world that we don’t inhabit. The blue sky and clouds is a green-screen projection onto our retinas, we are tunnel dwellers too but our messed-with senses betray nothing but an unease from streets where there are more doors than people.
Distress and consequence.
If this goes too far it’ll end with needle jabs and self-inflicted biting to determine whether there is pain, “I am real, I am, look at me, there’s blood, and it even hurts slightly... at least I think it hurts… it does hurt doesn’t it?”
Recovery and absorption.
Watching TV, glued to the exciting developments presented. Fascinating and factual insight into the world of others: Take That Out, Britain’s Hardest Crafter, Big Bother, American Idle, The Vice, Crims Dine With Me, Master Chuff, Wotnot and Where, How Clean is Your Grouse?
A single, quiet night in, down the tunnels.
For official/internal use only:
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