Seventy and Seventy One

Adam has become a vampire, at least I assume it’s Adam. We’re outside Asda at twilight, and I become aware of the threat as an object I take to be my brother moves at speed through dense foliage. Against better judgement I give chase, and watch as the vampire-like creature bounds across the road and jumps a garden fence. I follow. I am aware that I am able to leap in a similar fashion, and in the back garden of a normal suburban home I consider my position. The garden has a stone bird table, and through the blinds I can see an elderly couple watching television. I’m approached by a cat, which I instantly recognize as being the vampire. It senses my recognition and scatters in to a thousand black shapes, which form a sort of evil waterfall in reverse, spewing backwards over the fence and on to the adjoining cul-de-sac. I again give chase, but find myself standing in an empty street with no sign of the menace. All the lights in the houses are on, but no-one seems to be home.

Again in sociology, but mixed with the library a little. A man who may be Russell Barras-smith leads myself and Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen up some stairs such as those found in Wentworth 3rd floor. As we climb the stairs get narrower. I am scared of heights. L.L.B cups my genitals and I turn and chop him in the throat. R.B.S tells us to behave and then seems to forward roll off the stairs. I see his body tumble through space, but am too scared to watch it hit the bottom; when it does, it apparently makes no sound. I cling to the stairs in terror.

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Sixty Eight

In some sort of wasteland, possibly Malton from urbandead but in reality. The buildings and general lay out of the space appears to be a grid system, dark green, crisscrossing and bisecting the land; it resembles a giant board game. The sky is muted orange, and I have a feeling there is something lurking in the increasing shadows that dusk has introduced. Someone who I am with shows me around their flat. From the window I see abandoned car parks, and in the distance lakes and mountains, though this view is partially obscured by smoke rising from refineries that seem to encircle the town. The light is falling away. No-one is on the street when I am taken to the next house. The view from the window is the other house. Each subsequent place I am shown around offers a view of the preceding property. I am caught in a loop of property viewing, with some unknown menace responsible for the trap I find myself in.

Forty Five

Last night: 'Something wakes me, and I look out the window to see our garden has been territorialized by an unknown neighbour. A sign is on the lawn saying 'Until June/July 2011' (I am not confused by this). There are dog toys spread about the place and a large looking dog who moves around in his sleep as I inspect the garden. Later, inside, I hear the neighbours and their kid discussion technological purchases. I instantly loathe them. I am up at the front room window when a car pulls up and a number of people jump out and run in to the houses opposite. This is quickly followed by a number of police cars and an armed response unit which attacks a door and promptly falls through in to the cellar of one of the buildings. The flashing lights of the cars are an unusual red and purple. There is a lot of shouting and the sound of small arms fire in the distance. Zoe, woken by the commotion, comes to the window. 'What is going on?' she asks. 'They're looking for m...

Sixty Nine

'The undercroft of a castle or cathedral. A female friend – blonde, round face, but unrecognizable on waking – is telling me about an amazing man, a prophet no less, who is going to lead her/us to some unspecified promised land. I am obviously sceptical. The undercroft is arranged with a series of desks, as in a Victorian class room (all tightly packed, high, scarred wood). Everyone is wearing a white gown. The class begins, and the students and my friend are subjected to a baffling array of visuals and noises projected across the entirety of the room. Somewhere in the darkness a man is laughing. I move slowly through the flashing lights to the source of the laughter to find Chris Morris, his hair long and curly, is in fact doing all of this as an elaborate joke. I try to explain this to everyone by I am drowned out by the ‘art work’; I run out of the undercroft, aware now that the practical joke was obviously at my expense.'

A Disintegration Loop

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