February 3rd 2019.
Saucers zip rooftops. Everybody on the floor. The night is alive with lights and birdsong. Behind my lids, circles, shapes, words. Pockets filled with tangerines. I keep my hands there to stop them rolling away.
February 4th 2019.
Somewhere. A wreck of a town. Streets strewn with debris, discard. I’m wandering round, a postcard to send, but where are the postboxes? In the laundrette, the toothless lady who works there, watches tv. She cannot remember having seen any ‘since the village became town.’
February 5th 2019.
At a party. I am in the kitchen picking through plates of food. The room is busy with chat, with music (Sandy Denny?). Strings of fairylights out in the backyard – orange, blue, green – bob on the breeze.
“We should go see the dinosaurs.”
“In Crystal Palace?”
“They’ve moved them to Land’s End.”
Everyone finds this funny. It ain’t so funny.
The Ancient Skate Punk comes in. He is wearing a suit. He skates around the people. Dropping down low, he passes beneath the table. When he comes out, he is wearing a different suit. Applause.
nickreeves 