A mist
rises above the city.
The day is in its nineteenth hour, and it is tired of all the shit you've been giving it.
The sky is situated in a general upward area, and the ground, unsurprisingly, remains where it is.
From somewhere far away, behind the clouds, a sound begins to build.
A low drone floats our way, like static, bypassing the conscious mind, barely leaving a trace.
It reverberates. It vibrates. Then suddenly, it concentrates.
A quick
series of nine syndrum beats punches you gingerly in the face, a weedy, yet somehow piercing attack on
the nation’s collective eardrum.
dum dum
- dum dum dum – dadadada
To the
melody of the EastEnders theme tune, united
we chant our anthem, because no! we cannot resist:
Everyone you love is dead.
Everyone you love
and you ever have cared for
Everyone you love is dead
might as well give up
and shoot yourself in the head.
Birds land
on the tops of makeshift market stalls, perching among small puddles of
yesterday’s rain, collected with care as if they were liquid antiques, staying
there indefinitely, like mould on a five-year-old cheese.
Ruffling their
feathers reluctantly, the flying vagrants bring the drug deal to a close. Tweety
only wanted an eighth today.
Business is
slow.
And so the
wind blows.
 |
| "dude, are you there?" |
No comments:
Post a Comment