There’s something to that contemporary concept of contrived contempt, chip-spitting monocle popping eye boggling outrage and furor, a cry that rises from the faceless, the brainless and the numberless, the mob that squats in the forum, the rabble that hijacked the hive mind. With your twitching mouth and itching nose, glasses slipping, betraying your deeper currents, the rips and tears that eddy about beneath the surface, you approach the future in apprehension and appropriate, proportionate fear. You stumble, stop and turn to stare out across the city, reaching out past the glass shards and tinted plastics, through the smog and smoke from burning smut, light refracted through red filter dust particles and descending Threads, burning acidic vultures plummeting, falling skies falling house prices and lost marbles scattering in all directions, roaches running wild under the flickering kitchen light. That spasm across your face, your mind, your newspeak news feed, that twitch of muscle memory madness that pulls on the brain, those thoughts, those deep hidden depths, that fine print and green text, that surge of chemical chain reactions inside your head and the twisting in your chest, ringing bells and flashing lights every time you rise to wrath, worship or fear, that emotion, that slice of your meatloaf mania, that memory of festering botulism, that spewing rotten bastard bile that fills your heart every time my name crosses your feeble mind. That’s the moment I want to savour, to contain, to preserve and to collect. Sow the sea and reap the tsunami, dream under the silent tides and fade from the memory of sunlight and sound, sink down and down and never return to the surface for air, food or cheap office gossip. But your face! Contorted and confused, mouthing thoughts dimly suppressed and taped into your head, into this digital spreadsheet world you have a VHS brain, you are an unwound tape, you are subject to decayed vision, reason, perception and reception. All fade, all recede with the waves and all will come this way again, nothing changes but nothing is the same either. You are uncomfortable in your middle class car crash but you don’t want to do anything about it, avoid it, put the fire out, and deny this reality until it concedes and becomes something else. You are the same even when you are somebody else, you never hated change when chaos was on your plate, in your hair and on your mind. No bullshit left behind. No reason or rhyme and never enough time.