Not Good

This room echoes. Plenty of dichotomies regarding sad tunes powering away in the wreckage. What one set everything off? Can't bring myself to consider that it is worth carrying on for, though this is just a tiny thing in a world of tiny things. They'll get us out and save us all from everything but this. This must be revenge and on who? It is like a storm in here, all chaotic particles with no destination, just trying to find a synapse to connect to, to trigger the next in a series of meaningless decisions. Think of three years down the line and the soot and steel will be gone; the tunnels will be open again. And the suits are right, and right with us. All our disagreements are as but the scratches on our arms as kids, no difference to the real things which matter. We have been sucked in. Trains crash and planes crash and bridges collapse in storms but nobody starves. It all goes on and on and on.

Under the dripping trees, the crackles of the radio cannot be heard. Like for a limb out of the covers on a hot night, the wind blows in, to cool this humid place of green and leaves. The networks stop at the edge of our garden, an air-gap between us and the real world. There were bombs then too but none that we ever heard. We were poorer then in some ways and now we are richer but sadder. I find a dry part of this lean-to in the trees and settle down to read. The world flows in both directions, at least for itself, ignoring us poor wretches tied by arrows going ever forward to the end of us, the end of all of us, the end of time. Time is like a globe with no start point, no poles and no equator. We are limited in our direction on it but, live forever, and you get back to the start. Albert will shrink you and your life but make you fat. Maybe time will slow enough to let you live forever but probably not. What if I travelled on a beam of light? See the colours change; things get shorter for my friends who wave as I go by.

I call the last number.