Smoke Eight

By the time I get back to the flat it’s dark. My PCB’s almost powered up. Only old Cherries and Devomail anyway, including that missive, the Arts letter. Flicking through the softcopy as fresh wireless data chugs through the air, I remember again the eerie sensation of slow-motion I felt when I first scanned the lines. 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. All just a flickwand away now. The faux radium digits of my spring watch flash the countdown to dusk, and the official curfew. Safe inside my subsidised dream, a suburban capsule hurtling towards the void.

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