Dead Air

The sand lifts the sky, nudging it out of reach and hiding it in a blurry, smudgy yellowy-brown. Below, the ground is still, waiting, as it always does. I sit in my cold, dry fake air and wonder if I’m unknowingly preparing for a life on Mars. Was Bowie the canary?

I consider this. Well, perhaps not, and instead I decide he was just a genius-or-maybe-schizophrenic addled by too much occult and the hall of mirrors created by fame. So, conversation dissolving into a social media soup are we now all stuck in an Alice in Wonderland hall of mirrors á la MK Ultra mind control experiment? Maybe. Who ever said Revelation would be pleasant?

And the fake air continues to chill my skin and numb my mind with its bland emptiness. It’s like the dull, dry husk of a desiccated animal – nothing there and no sign that it was ever alive. “Now you too can be cleaned, cooled and contained into an oblivion of uniformity.” Hell is not some fiery abyss filled with pain and heat – that at least might burn up the apathy of comfort. It’s the cold empty nihilism of sanitised life.