on the steps of st pauls

sitting on a folded up copy of grazia magazine purchased earlier in the day as i set off to nothingness, to obliterate my brain, heart, memory, existence...

sitting on a folded up copy of grazia magazine, covering - with my fashionably toned-up bottom - a £500 pair of jeans, or trainers, or handbag...

sitting on a folded up copy of grazia magazine, breathing cold autumn air stopping to take in this outdoor lecture by manuel castells, found by chance after taking the firstfuckingbustocome because i truly can't care less where i'm going or how i get there...

i look at the tents to the right, and listen to this tiny man talking of the future, and the past and the collapse of everthing.

i look at the other people on the step, wide angle shot of london landmarks behind me, unseen by me, photographed by a million tourists.

a man shouts abuse at the speaker, who responds 'oh i hear the echo of the past', spanish spice.

i materialise from my disappearance, present to the current movie playing out on my personal screen... the dystopian future. the children attached to their screens. the rebellious tribe. the landmark taken over by the movement. paranoia as the only logical conclusion.

"expect the best, prepare for the worst"

now, as i write this, i remember a song from when i was young and i also didn't care, but for different reasons.

El futuro llegó hace rato
todo un palo, ya lo ves!

Patricio Rey y sus Redonditos de Ricota