set?
…and so i find myself, possibly many miles away from where i am supposed to be, trundling along in a bus, on the road through the air. Quite how this bus took off, or even how this bus manages to hold its passengers in a gravitational state, whilst assuming similar atmospheric conditions baffles me. The bus is the same as any normal passenger bus. Vomit-friendly melamine surfaces mixed with the coarsest durable moquette (in cyan and violet shades guaranteed to displease the eye) sit before me. The knowing grin of the halogen bulb flickering in the corner. I sink deeper into the seat, which throws its arms around and pulls in closer. Surely this should not happen?
A glance to the left reveals a tantalising morsel of information in this dulled and misted scene; any semblance of glassy window has been blacked out by the darkness of wispy air and the crackle of ionosphere. Perhaps the creator of this vehicle has deemed that no space is wasted space, however the only article filling the void between this vessel and planetary nebulae is clean, glossy nothing. Move along, please.In front of the doors lies a small black and yellow striped colony of marching ants. Today’s parade includes a Viennese Waltz, with each yellow ant taking the partner of a black ant, bearing the number of the competitive couple emblazoned by a post-it note on their backs. The seat pulls me in further, and as i feel the bus start to gain speed underfoot, the dancing begins. When will this ever end?
The spinning dervish begins, with each dancer moving gracefully, sewn into the image library of time. It is almost as if each dancer is both bystander and participant; slicing away through the mutated graphs plotting the course of each dancer, each particle, through the area. Taking every fraction of every second into consideration. Afraid to feel the variance of your perception of all time being completely and unconsequentially fucked, by that little breath you took before the sip of water this morning (just before you pretended to leave the house, so that the neighbours didn’t get too concerned.)
Quite possibly, right now, it would be possible to touch eternity at the end of a fingertip, outstretched from stiffened sinew, sensation pulsating and poised to abruptly tip a tremulous wave through synapse and full-blown English Decorum. Are the lights faltering now? Are the words making any sense, part and parcel to parlance a parlez-vous of pert pistachio perambulations?
…The words start to fail once more, and I wake. The bus I am on is quite definitely not travelling in the air. The bus I am on is quite definitely travelling through an unfamiliar area of this city, miles away from home. The air reeks of the delicate scent known to all true parfumiers as Eau du Saturday Morning in Soho - old cigarette smoke, pollution, clothes crisped in beer and wine and spirits, skin caked in stale sweat, human waste, cold kebab and a sour longing to go home to rest a thumping head…Forty minutes to go.
I rest my head. Not there. Not here. Not even thinking. Maybe thinking. Possibly thinking. Might even be thinking. Slightly thinking. Thinking a little. Keenly thinking. Thinking and flicking pages of memory back to watch the lines cross and to lay the tripwire, once more. Set the scene, lay the props.
Only this time, we are the audience instead of the actors…
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