By the time I got back to the flat it was dark again. My reader had almost powered down. Only old cherries from the Guardian and my home mail anyway, including that missive, the Arts letter. Flicking through the softcopy as fresh wireless data chugged through the air, I remembered again that eerie sensation of slow-motion when I first scanned the lines, realising as it impacted that this time I had been successful. We are happy to inform you … successful application … appropriate acknowledgement of our funding for your project … every success. Attached, the e-scan for a direct account credit. Project expenses. Some figure I’d plucked from the air, now made real. Breakdowns of rental expenses, food, utilities, transport, everything. 50,000 credits, a flick wand away. The faux radium digits of my spring watch flashed the countdown to dusk, and the official curfew. Safe inside my subsidised dream, my suburban capsule hurtling towards the void.
Oh brave dream. Go kick some subsidised arse, D.
27 November 2007 at 4:40 pm