Canary Wharf is the eye on a pulsating skyline, you can see it wherever you stand in Britain. It slowly bleeds energy through the ley lines and we harvest it. It drains our life force and we age at a faster rate, developing strange ailments: calloused skin, nausea, vertigo, paranoia, memory loss, fatigue and lethargy, melancholy. The sheep are dying and no one knows why.
Ever feel like you’ve been cheated? Ever feel like there’s nothing beyond those walls?
I lie on my back on the M1 and watch the clouds drift slowly for an entire day. The sun is bright but gives off no heat. This is Arcadia. I run my fingers along the tarmac and feel the contours of ancient burial sites, the outlines of ritual procession routes, and the ridges of old cursus monuments. I tangibly sense the movement of this island through the ocean. I’m lying on a raft in a sea with no current, basking in a cold sun, dreaming of nothing.
If you pay an extra £500 you can go in a special pod on the London Eye that never stops. Some people live their remaining days on there because they hate their lives. There are a few City workers, still in their suits, just going round and round, day after day, passing the time by trying to map the geography of London onto the view. ‘I think that’s Kensington… no, no, can’t be… I’m looking to the North East. What’s that tower then?’ They’ll die there, but it’s better than the alternative.
We think this island is red and blue, but it’s a faded purple and grey - like the sky on a bright, cold day in winter. The planes go nowhere and post boxes are just bins. Everything’s made of paper. The skyscrapers are kids’ drawings and the animals are fuzzy felts. The guests on radio phone-in shows are actors and the hosts are doing community service. The estate agents on the high street are fronts for betting shops and the betting shops are fronts for illegal meat raffles. The bread is made of Chinese newspaper and the milk is dog cum. Your aunty isn’t real and everything you’ve ever been told is a lie.
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