He stands in the empty doorway of his roofless house. Inside is only landfill.
The storm has passed.
They drive the sheep up to the mountains where they graze through the summer.
The blizzard continues.
They came to the streets to protest about land reforms and were met by police.
The water cannons flattened them to the dirt.
The pelicans land on the wooden platform and wait for the fishermen.
The fish are thrown into the sky, under the razor sun.
He dangles above the craters; a scientist confronted with mystery.
He hangs from a rope above ice and snow.
He spent an hour removing pictures from the bedroom wall. Images of icons, cars, animals, slogans, pin-ups, friends. He saved the blu-tack from the corners of each piece of paper and combined them into a ball. He put the pictures into a black bin liner, then he took the ball of blu-tack and dabbed it across the wall, removing any stubborn sticky debris. But the wall was pock-marked. Stains remained; blemishes that would never disappear. It was like a desert terrain, marked for ever by the craters of missiles and bombs once used to hold up some culture, some ethos.
She was laughing. She liked to laugh, to giggle. The world was a funny place. People were funny. People said she was the life and soul. She liked to dance and let her hair down. Alison said she should be a comedian on TV. She would like to be on TV. She would be good at it. A chat show would be best. She liked chatting. She chatted with people at the bus stop and in the supermarket. Her neighbours always said hello. She chatted online too with her new friends. She sent them pictures. Very naughty pictures. Bad pictures.