Written and Voiced By Zachary Thompson
It was the stillness of prehistory, of a wilderness lorded by no one, unbroken and deep and anticipating forever. The time told only through shadows. It was the idea of mycoidal sentience joining up in the earth. It was portals and pools and the gently dying, strewn, and turning umber in a spuming harmony.
The air rumbled with the strange calls of launching aircraft, ascending like larks fleeing a coming cataclysm to some huge, immappable events in the heavens.
And then, summoned, spurred to the ineffable, the country crawls, stitching together the hills and I to something altogether new. The world beyond the glass converging, engulfing, folding in on itself, collapsing into a scribble, into a vast yearning machine on the horizon.
Bodies careened in a state of catatonia there, spiralling nowhere, shifting, distributing in self-induced psychosis to the rhythms of some sinister self-solving equation. Their blood compelled by some spirit of deep space, by a thing baneful and nameless and belonging to a place hell holds in revere. A thing near decay, made unresolved and hungry, veering towards the realities of the computer-generated, of CGI utopias and sterile dreamscapes.
On the boundaries though, in those places yet broken down by the maelstrom of foreign money and offshore investors, matter lies liminal, severed, caught in states not permitted by nature. Leaving in palimpsest upon peeling walls, in littered verges, and fecund curbs, the history of things made vacuous, lorn, waiting for the entropy of the city to transfigure them, for the stillness of the world to give way.
…