Choking from the tree pollen and the blanket of smog that had blown in from across the sea and the dust that had risen from the roads after the fires of the previous week. The atmosphere was unbreathable. Slowly jogging through the drag of streets from west to east was a chore for the chest. The sky was cloudless, but all the towers and cranes in the distance took on a muddy, sepia colour. It was a sense of desaturation, a fading, that was at odds with the coarse, thick reality of the air. The town was suffocating under itself.
A light aircraft just dropped out of the sky, enmeshed, literally, in its own trail of propaganda. Over our own heads are helicopters and, down in the square below, hundreds of office workers have congregated for a fire drill.
We are booking my birthday meal and discussing people’s relationships: how friends are feeling; what might happen in future.
I have made an Earl Grey tea with an out-of-date tea bag. Now it’s back to work.
The sun is out. Tonight we will drink.
Things go up. Things come down. It’s how they land that counts; the state we’re all in.
The ice is melting round us all. The winds are breaking it apart. Soon its great mass will be shattered into fragile crystalline flakes that look like trees. And the wind will raise great fires from the earth and blow them through the trees and the trees will turn to ash. And the wind will lift the ash to the heavens and rain it down on us. And the ash will fall into rivers and kill the fish and the rivers will be swallowed by the seas which will rise up against us, for they know what we have done.