Here’s some more short story nonsense.
In the cold hours of an early April morning, Cole Lowman’s feet squelched into half-melted snow as he trudged to work, head ducked low in a tailored black overcoat. The fog hung thickly in velvet sheets, enveloping everything it touched. The sun didn’t seem to have the energy to fight the gloom these days, not that Cole could really blame it. As he walked, sleet drifted down and danced before his face, and cold air stung his eyes. Headlights of sickly yellow cut through the fog as the first car of the morning traffic felt its way along the road. The driver, a lumpy mass of scarf and coat, peered impatiently over his steering wheel as though he believed that pinched face indignation would somehow make the fog lift faster. More headlights soon appeared. The thought occurred to Cole that the world always woke up, no matter how lousy the weather. The apocalypse could occur this very morning, and no doubt people would still go about their routines, oblivious. Unless, perhaps, they pulled up beside the unusual sight of a skeletal horseman stuck in traffic. Jobs to work, money to earn and bills to pay, with the occasional buying of coffee machines and the like. The things we live for. As he squished along the footpath, his feet rapidly turning numb, Cole wondered dimly just when life had become this way. A car bounced through nearby pothole, splattering Cole with icy mud. It was going to be a dismal day.
It was 6.49am when Cole got to the corner of his bus stop. He was adhering to his usual schedule. He had somehow become a punctilious man, although he wasn’t exactly sure when or how it had happened. The bus would arrive at 6.52am, Cole would step onboard, take his usual seat, and stare out the window as the bus clattered down the road, belching black smoke and stopping intermittently to disgorge people along the way. Cole had a few minutes before he was due to cross the road to the bus stop, and paused a moment. He rubbed his hands together, and blew air on his fingers, hoping that the feeling would return to them. His employer would have little use for a frostbitten typist. His boss, a bald, permanently red-faced man with a tie that was always done up too tight, would remind Cole that he had better look after himself, because he didn’t have any sick days left. Cole sighed and watched as his breath spiralled away into the morning air. Faces buried in scarves and jackets hurried past him, each a walking set of blank eyes and headphones marching along to their own soundtrack. One set of eyes cast a glance at Cole, darting downwards and narrowing slightly, before meeting his gaze. The strangely bright eyes, set in an elegant, angular face of a young man, moved towards him. A surge of anxiety spiked in Cole’s chest, and he remained still. The strange man moved close to Cole, and leaned in. ‘Don’t be late, Cole. You’ll miss your bus’ the voice said, softly whispering in his ear. Terror spread through Cole like molten hot metal in his veins. He turned and ran. His pulse drummed in his ears and his mouth turned acrid as he hurried across the road. As he ran, his mind scrambled with panic, he wondered deliriously if anything that morning was real. Cole was prone to panic attacks, and he had been suffering more of them of late. But, in addition to their usual effects, unpleasant as they may be, there would additional consequences today. Cole would no doubt now be late. Secondly, and perhaps more seriously, it caused Cole to be completely unaware as he wandered into the path of the oncoming 409 bus. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the bus ploughed into him, flinging him across the road. His skin ground away against the bitumen as the world became a garbled blur of gravel and pain, spinning wildly as he tumbled. A scream sounded from an onlooker as Cole came to a stop in the gutter. Now a mangled mess of broken bones and spreading blood, his thoughts slowly ebbed away into blackness as horrified faces peered down at him.
‘Call an ambulance!’ he heard a voice shriek.
‘Not going to help him, lady. He’s a goner’ a gruff voice replied. He felt a foot poke at his side. ‘Might as well call him a hearse.’
All in all, a dismal day. But, Cole thought deliriously as his vision faded for the final time, a dismal day that was now done.
Cole’s eyes snapped open. He was seated on a worn padded chair, clothed and apparently healthy, free from any of the typical aftereffects of being run over by a bus. He had regained consciousness in a panelled room, dimly lit by a single flickering light, swaying gently from the ceiling. Yellow dust hung thickly in the air, and twisting veins of darkly coloured wood lined the room, warped and in danger of splintering apart. A single closed door stood at one end. A sickly-sweet odour of decay, a nauseating blend of decomposing wood and rotting gardenias, caused Cole to gag violently. This was not where he was supposed to be. Cole slowly rose to his feet, and ran his hands over himself. He was sure that he was supposed to be dead. But, no matter how many times he checked, everything on his body was where it should be. Moving over to a window, he peered out at a blackened sky, splattered with brilliant white cracks that spread like webs to the horizon. Straight roads with glowing streetlamps spread out into the darkness, each dotted with buildings that pumped smoke into the air in rhythmic bursts. Cole stumbled back to his chair. It was all utterly incomprehensible. He pressed his face into his hands.
‘First time?’ a voice asked.
Cole became aware that he was not alone. He looked up, and saw a young man seated in the far corner of the room. He seemed relatively normal, if somewhat unnervingly ambivalent about their current situation. As Cole focused his vision, he saw that the young man’s eyes glowed faintly, as if reflecting a candlelight that wasn’t there.
‘Is this your first time through, I mean’ said the young man. He leant back in his chair and stretched.
Cole got up and pulled frantically at the lone door, before banging on it with his fists.
‘That won’t do anything. It doesn’t open until you’re called’ he said as Cole clawed at the door. ‘Didn’t you read the sign?’ He yawned and gestured to a sign hung pointedly above the door. It read:
‘Sit until called. Do not leave the room. Do not cut the line. No fighting. And don’t forget to smile!*
*Failure to smile is an offence
Printed by Because I Said So Civic Control Corp.’
‘The no fighting part always makes me laugh,’ the young man continued. ‘I mean, what’s the point of fighting if the person you just killed can just reattach their head?’
Cole slumped into a corner, breathing rapidly. He tried to remember the breathing exercises his doctor had given him, but realised with horror that these may not work if you aren’t breathing at all. The curious young man stood, and moved over to Cole. He knelt on his haunches, and placed a hand on Cole’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, I forget sometimes that this isn’t exactly easy. I’m Nine. Stupid name, I know, but it isn’t my original. Long story.’ He took Cole’s hand and shook it.
‘I’m … Cole.’
Nine smiled. ‘Well Cole, I find the best way is the most direct. You’re dead, and you’ve ended up here. I don’t know if this is the afterlife, but if it is, it’s pretty disappointing, really.’ Nine looked around the room, and sighed.
Coles breathing began to slow. He looked up at the young man with the glowing eyes.
‘The last thing I remember,’ Cole said, ‘was crossing a road. And maybe a bus. And pain.’ He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
Nine grimaced. ‘You remember less each time, but that doesn’t sound like a good one. I’ve had a few bad ones myself. One happened on a roller coaster called ‘The Slicer.’ Nine walked over to the window, and peered through. ‘If I’d known it was going to be that literal, I probably wouldn’t have gotten on.’
Suddenly, an announcement sounded from a crackling speaker.
‘Cole Lowman, please enter Receiving Room One.’
Nine helped Cole to his feet, and brushed the dust from his clothes in quick swipes.
‘That’s you. Better get in there. You don’t want to miss your appointment, or you’ll end up like old man Dusty over there.’ Nine pointed to a dimly lit corner. There sat an old man, gnarled and grey, beard trailing on the ground and covered in brown dust, unmoving and blended into the wall.
‘That’s a man?’ Cole said, recoiling.
‘Used to be, I guess. No one knows how long he’s been here for. His marbles have pretty much all rolled away now.’
The old man creaked his head in their direction, dust falling from him in clumps of dirty snow.
‘On and on we try, born without being alive, but there can be no hope, in a place where not even time can fly’ the old man rasped, soil blowing from his lungs.
Cole hesitantly opened the door. A desk stood in a circle of light, behind which a tall man stood. His back turned, he was clutching an open file, his arms unnaturally long. Cole saw with horror that a noose was tied around his neck, buried into glaring red flesh. He took a step back.
‘Don’t worry. It’ll be alright. Well, maybe. But you have to go in.’ Nine placed an arm around Cole’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see you again, ok? I guarantee it.’
Cole nodded, and slowly headed into the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
Cole looked out across the vast factory. Oil dripped freely from the walls, forming brown pools upon the rivet-studded floor, shimmering with heat. Blasts of steam hissed as the machines pumped, throwing rust and metal shavings into the air where it slowly fell in polluted flakes. Sallow faces stared at the conveyor belt in front of them, assembling parts that came past. His fellow workers, some of whom still carried evidence of their latest demise, stared straight ahead through glassy eyes, mouths agape and covered in ochre grime. The strange man in the room had certainly not sugar coated it. He had been given a pamphlet, taken to a bus, shoved onboard, and promptly driven to his new place of work. The pamphlet, entitled ‘So, you’re life-impaired!’ explained that as a new arrival, Cole was entitled to a dwelling and employment, where he was expected to work. It was all part of what was termed the ‘adjusting period’. Cole could expect to work here for a few hundred years, before a position possibly opened up in management. It was not optional. Each factory was staffed with similar men to the one in the room, each with a noose around their neck, and they prowled around the factory floor, making sure that everything remained in order. They often dragged malingerers to a lower floor of the factory, and usually, they did not return. To Cole, this seemed to be a slight subversion of ‘eternal rest’. But, with no choice given, he worked.
Cole felt a tap on his shoulder. He wasn’t sure how long he had been working, or even if time really meant anything in a place such as this. He turned to see the face of Nine close to his.
‘Follow me’ Nine said, his voice low.
Cole never usually liked to leave in the middle of shifts. In his old life, he was infamous for being one of the few employees to have remained at his desk during a building fire. Luckily for Cole, it was extinguished shortly before he had to get up.
‘Yes. Now. This way.’
Ducking low, Nine slunk through the factory, avoiding the gaze of the patrolling Noose-men. He stopped at a large iron door which led outside, and gestured for Cole to hurry. Reluctantly, Cole crouched, and followed.
Cole and Nine stood on top of a cliff, overlooking an immense murky sea. The sable waves churned below, crashing into jagged rocks that stuck out like broken teeth, stained inky black by time. A lone wooden sign stood at the peak. It read: ‘Everywhere is nowhere. Everyone is no one. There is no escape’.
‘Ignore that,’ Nine said, shrugging off his jacket. ‘That’s just there as a loss-prevention device.’
Cole looked down over the edge of the cliff to the crashing waves below.
‘This next part might get a little wet. That down there, is how you get out of here. Only way to do it is to jump. Might want to hold your nose, or something.’
Cole backed away from the edge. He had never been a great swimmer.
‘That’s how to escape?’ Cole said, hugging himself against the wind. ‘Isn’t there a better way?’
Nine stripped off his shirt.
‘Believe me, I’ve looked. This is the only way. I’ve done this before.’ A tinge of sadness crept into his voice. ‘It leads to the surface, or whatever world you left behind. Problem is, they look for you, and find ways to bring you back. Each time you move between the two, you lose a little piece of yourself.’ Nine crouched, and ran his hands through the rough gravel of the clifftop, pebbles falling through his fingers. ‘Pieces chip away from you, like your memory. Nine isn’t my name. Truth is, I can’t remember it anymore. It’s only the number of times I came through here before I lost count. To be completely honest, I’m not even sure if I’m human anymore.’ Nine looked up at Cole, his eyes glowing faintly. ‘But you have to make a choice. I made mine. And now you do too.’ With that, Nine leapt off the cliff, disappearing into the waves below.
Cole was never one to break rules. His whole life he had done what he was told, sat up as straight as he could, and the only thing it had gotten him was the privilege of being hit by a bus. He wasn’t sure of it, but he felt he was close to grasping the answer to a question that had long eluded him. The answer lay at the bottom of that cliff. With a deep breath, Cole stepped off the edge, into the abyss below.
I found an old shirt in my closet the other day. It was my high school uniform shirt, yellowed with age and crumpled in a box. I spent a lot time in shirts like this as a teenager, and it feels odd to look at it now, a relic from a strange, insular world now long gone. One of the traditions of the final day of school is to sign the shirts of other people, leaving little messages on the fabric. As I recall, some people barely had enough space on their shirt to fit all these messages. I was not one of these people. I was never particularly popular, and no one was clamouring for the real estate. I was just a quiet guy that no one really knew anything about. One of the few messages on my shirt reads ‘Hi Luke, u didn’t say much but ur great’. Well, at least they got my name right, I suppose. One of the things that stand out about the few messages that I did get however, is a recurring reference to a particular band. One message reads ‘Have a Green Day!’, written by some guy who I never spoke to. Another message reads ‘Billie Joe is a hillbilly, get a cooler idol’, left by one of the guys who always seemed to be into much cooler music than I was. Yet another oddly specific message informs me that ‘Green Day have little talent but sound cool’. Seems a little contradictory to me, but whatever. From these messages, it seems that one thing was known about me – that I really liked Green Day. Despite being quiet and shy, that fact had still managed to become known.
Thinking back, I suppose I did have a habit of playing their music frequently in the common room. Oh, and I did dye my hair blue that one time, after I saw that Billie Joe had once done the same, although the end result looked like I’d had an accident with blue toilet cleaner. I also shamelessly aped his fashion sense, usually failing to pull it off. With all that in mind, I suppose it makes sense that I was known for my slight obsession with them. But, what strikes me now is how strongly I identified with them, and how they gave me an image that I felt I could embrace during those unsure teenage years. It comforted me, I suppose. Only now as I look at an old, yellowing shirt do I realise just how much their music helped me through that time. I suppose I could also mention the symbolism of reminiscing over an aged high school shirt when I myself am growing older, but I think I’ll leave that alone.
Let’s start again. This post was meant to be about something else entirely, and I’ve gotten a little side-tracked. I also should really clean out my closet. Anyway, what I originally planned to talk about was Insomniac, Green Day’s 1995 follow-up to Dookie. It’s an album that doesn’t seem to get much attention, even from the band themselves, who only tended to include the songs Geek Stink Breath and Brain Stew/Jaded on their setlists. I’ve written on here before about my love of the album Dookie. Whilst it is true that I still love the album, I feel that I should probably make a confession – it isn’t my favourite Green Day record, nor was it the first album of theirs that I listened to for any length of time. Nope, that album would be Insomniac.
It’s easy to dismiss Insomniac as the edgier, lamer and less-successful version of Dookie. It isn’t as accessible. It’s harsher, darker and more abrasive. It didn’t sell as well. In some ways, it follows the tradition of the ‘after the success’ album, much like Nirvana’s In Utero. But, although Insomniac may not break any new ground, it is a ferocious, visceral album that blasts relentlessly forward, speeding through its songs in just under 33 minutes. I always found this album to be recklessly joyful in its approach, which is slightly odd, considering the darkness of the lyrics. The opening song Armatage Shanks is an example of this, Billie Joe’s painfully detailed and perversely proud self-assessment being something I have always found uncomfortably easy to relate to. Overall, the album retains all the melodies and hooks that Green Day are so adept at, and displays some of Mike Dirnt’s best playing, his bass parts being a highlight of the album, especially in songs like Stuck With Me and Stuart and the Avenue. The album simply doesn’t let up, and I always find myself going back to it.
I was going to go further into detail, but I think I’ll save that for another post. I’ve also been listening to Smash a lot lately, so I might write something about that, too. It’s another one of those albums that I often return to. It’s funny how particular albums can become tied to memory, and provide access to certain points in time. We all have our soundtracks, and they do say that the best memories are set to music. At least I think they say that, anyway.
This is a summary/analysis of Animal Farm by George Orwell that I wrote for yet another class. I think I messed this up a bit – it isn’t really clear what this piece is supposed to be. Regardless, still a great book (or novella, I suppose).
Animal Farm is an allegorical novella by George Orwell, first published in England in 1945. Containing many of the elements and themes that would later define Orwell as a writer, it has come to be one of his most celebrated works, placed only alongside 1984 in terms of its impact and legacy. A symbolic retelling of the events leading up the Russian Revolution of 1917, and the subsequent Stalinist period of Soviet Russia, it incorporates Orwell’s keen awareness of social justice with the dystopian setting that has become so associated with his work. Through the setting of Manor Farm and the satirical animals that inhabit it, Orwell presents a metafictional work that draws attention to itself as a representation of history, but also serves as a warning about the dangers of power and the methods in which it is attained and used.
The initial conflict is between human and animal, as Mr. Jones, the owner of Manor Farm, is a cruel and irresponsible drunkard. He is seen by the animals as a representation of all that is wrong with mankind, and they soon resolve to overthrow him, with the pigs of the farm the driving force behind this movement. Old Major, an elderly pig, delivers a rousing speech to the assembled animals, and creates the philosophy known in the novella as ‘Animalism’. Espousing that all animals are created equal, Old Major myopically places blame on mankind for all of their troubles. This speech also illustrates the great power that language can have over crowds, and serves as the inciting incident for the story. He finds supporters in Snowball and Napoleon; two adult pigs who soon become leaders of the newly-found movement. Seven commandments are written upon the barn wall, to serve as a guiding reminder of the shared values they hold. Old Major also imparts a warning that will increase in relevance as the story continues – that ‘in fighting against man, we must not come to resemble him’. All characters are given easily identifiable characteristics, from the slow-witted but powerful Boxer, to the infantile and immature Millie, and all are united in the common goal of overthrowing their human masters.
After the death of Old Major, the animals soon rebel and drive the humans from the farm, destroying all traces of the former regime. The pigs are established as the new leaders, tasked with educating the other animals about Animalism. Snowball and Napoleon are established as the de facto leaders of the farm, which is renamed ‘Animal Farm’. However, conflict between these two characters soon arises, with Napoleon’s theft of communal milk serving as an early delineation between the two. In contrast to Snowball’s high-minded and noble ideals, Napoleon, a ‘fierce-looking boar’, is concerned with power and is ruthlessly fixed on attaining it. At this point, their revolution has been successful, however it soon becomes clear that the difference between philosophy and implementation is far more marked than the animals may have believed.
At first, the farm operates well, but we soon see the character of the pigs begin to change, with Napoleon and Squealer, the fast-talking mouthpiece of the leadership, showing the most noticeable transformations. The pigs do not assist with any of the work, merely standing behind the other animals as they toil, and begin to appropriate food for themselves alone, which is relentlessly rationalised by Squealer. The overall goal of most of the characters has been achieved, but we now see that the pigs have a very different goal in mind, and are beginning to advance inexorably towards it.
After a failed attempt by humans to regain the farm, the conflict between Snowball and Napoleon soon escalates to violence, and Snowball is driven from the farm by three vicious dogs, trained by Napoleon for this express purpose. This conflict is ultimately ended with Snowball being branded a traitor, with any mention of his name strictly forbidden. The history of the farm is rewritten, and all traces of Snowball are erased from record. After the defeat of the humans, the farm begins to adopt a militaristic tone, and the pigs begin to exert further control. Napoleon instructs the animals to construct a windmill, an idea originally proposed by Snowball, but now rather than being a project of self-sufficiency, it is now merely a justification for punitive methods of control.
Napoleon soon establishes total control over the farm, starving the animals and working them harder than they ever had under the rule of the humans. However, all thoroughly believe in the pig’s message, as displayed in the horse Boxer’s unceasing dedication to work harder, all the while constantly reassuring himself that ‘Napoleon is always right’. The animals are entreated to sacrifice for the common good, whilst history is rewritten further, the commandments painted upon the barn walls now subject to alteration. All characters have changed through this process, with the common animals becoming wearily accepting of their life, reduced to the recitation of mindless slogans, whilst the pigs drift closer to becoming the embodiment of the very thing they once rose up to fight.
By the end of the novella, years have passed, and the pigs have completed their assumption of power over the farm. The common animals have no concept of how much time has gone by, and are accepting of their life of toil and oppression, and in an echo of 1984, reason that it must have always been this way. The pigs have completed their transformation, and now resemble humans to such an extent that the common animals cannot tell them apart. The pigs now dress in clothes and carry whips, and all vestiges of the original revolution have been wiped away. In the conclusion of the novella, Orwell reminds us of the dangers of power – that even the most altruistic ideals can be warped into being merely the tools of the corrupt and the cruel.
An article I wrote for a magazine project. I should rewrite this actually – I feel like I can do much better, and writing about my all-time favourite band is always fun.
I was thirteen years old, and without taste. In music, that is. My preferences were mostly the leftovers of my parent’s music collection, dusty LP’s sitting beside a record player that hardly ever saw use, except as a convenient spot to place a plant. I knew music existed, but I didn’t quite understand it. When people would ask me what bands I was into, I would be forced into an awkward silence, before reciting some names that I saw amongst the record collection at home. These were not popular choices. It just all seemed strange to me; I would hear kids talking about Nirvana, and would nod along with conversations without fully understanding what they were. As far as I could gather, they enjoyed teen spirit. Were they just really into team sports? One afternoon after school, an excited friend played me Nevermind. I secretly thought it sounded like the noise a bunch of malfunctioning power tools would make – abrasive and depressing. I mean, I was thirteen, so I was confused and depressed enough already. If that’s what music was, I would keep a healthy distance from it, and resign myself to the fact that it would forever be a world that I could never be a part of. But, everything changed when I heard the opening drum rolls of Green Day’s Dookie.
I knew straight away. This was the band for me. Brimming with energy, with tight and punchy songs topped off by a snarky self-effacing sense of humour, the Californian trio’s third album resonated with me in a way that no music had before. I borrowed a copy of the album from a friend, and listened to it non-stop. The lyrics spoke of boredom and apathy. About confusion and disconnection, of anxiety and alienation. This was music that I could understand, that blasted out of my speakers and reminded me with a snotty voice that perhaps I did have a place after all. A few other things also became clear. I was now into punk rock, and I needed a guitar.
Evidently, I was not alone in this reaction. The album was huge. Having formed in 1986 by Billie Joe Armstrong and Mike Dirnt, and originally known as Sweet Children, the band had been honing their skills through relentless touring and recording. After a name change to Green Day, an oblique reference to the band member’s affection for marijuana, original drummer Al Sobrante left to pursue a college degree, and was replaced by Tre Cool in 1991. They put out a number of EP’s and LP’s on Lookout! Records, the major releases being the compilation 1039 Smoothed Out Slappy Hours and 1992’s Kerplunk, which brought them to the attention of major labels. After singing to Reprise Records, and teaming up with producer Rob Cavallo, Dookie was the result. It was a sensation, eventually selling over 20 million copies and spawning the hits Long View, Basket Case, and When I Come Around. It blew punk rock onto mainstream radio, and along with bands such as The Offspring and Rancid, had a heavy influence on the path of alternative music during the 1990’s. The album was undoubtedly difficult to follow, and whilst the following albums Insomniac (1995) Nimrod (1997) and Warning (2000) were solid musically, commercially they did not match their earlier success, and it was generally accepted that the band was declining, and facing irrelevance. This changed with the release of American Idiot in 2004. It is a rare band that can change the course of modern music – it is an even rarer band that can do it twice.
American Idiot was another huge success. It sold 15 million copies, spawned numerous hit singles, and hurled the unexpectedly matured band back into relevancy. The band once again altered the musical landscape, and American Idiot now features alongside Dookie as the bands best work. However, it was at this point that the connection I felt to the band started to wane, as they were no longer the three bratty young men I had first heard in my youth, and not the band that I had grown up with. Despite this, I still find myself returning to their music. It has formed the soundtrack to my life, and been with me during all the highs and lows that go along with it. For this reason, I will always have affection for those three goofballs from California, and hope that their journey isn’t quite over yet. Hopefully, I can go with them.
He did not lead a particularly exciting life. In fact, it was almost as far from exciting as you could get. Feet shuffled forward. He shuffled forward. The bills he needed to pay were folded neatly in his hand, growing slightly damp from the beaded perspiration forming upon his fingertips. Despite the fact that most people’s lives are unremarkable, brightened only perhaps by the occasional overseas trip or hilarious kitchen mishap, they were surely above the level of dullness he had managed to achieve, and it had not been easy. It had taken effort to be this dull, stripping back any colour with layers of assorted tedium, before being covered with linoleum and stuck to the wall of a mid-1970’s flat. He tried to not think about it, but it gnawed at him in unguarded moments, dripping onto his thoughts like a faulty tap inside his head. Standing in line at the bank, he waited to be served with the serenity of a person who, for all intents and purposes, wasn’t really there – He could be walked through like a breeze, with a hazy peace found in the intangibility of the disconnected rendering him almost ethereal, floating amongst the world in a state of living humdrum. It would have been a perfect way to live; untroubled, unimpassioned, and tranquil to the point of flat effect – if only he wasn’t dimly aware of it. But, he was. Another shuffle forward. It seemed with every inch forward, his awareness of exactly where he was increased. Having not noticed before probably should have alarmed him, especially considering he drove here, filled out forms, and joined a line of rather unhappy people, all operating on a limited consciousness, like a dimmed screen bleakly peering into a darkened room. What was he doing here again? Oh, bills. He remembered that. But what bills? Power, gas, he didn’t know. They were red, and most likely angry, because they greeted him like wasps every morning at the mailbox, of that he was certain. He was here to pay them. Now he remembered. A muted tinge of anxiety grabbed in his chest, and the urge to run screaming out of this grey suffocation became almost unbearable. He wished that he hadn’t remembered where he was, or why he was here. Sometimes it just didn’t pay to think too much about things. It seemed that living had become one of those things, but it tended to sneak up in his mind, advancing silently in weak moments. Thinking about life, he had discovered, led to an inexorable tendency to turn an otherwise manageable day into one that could quite easily come to a close at the end of an extension cord. So, he just didn’t think about it. Plus, his extension cord was pretty old.