He grew fond of the detached, atomised mental state induced through his forays with this GM hybrid. He virtually felt the cells, the tissue tearing apart, couldn’t he? Tearing apart from themselves, dividing, metastasing, the chromosomes, double helix uncoiling, undressing, and disintegrating into less than a handful of dust, less than nothing.
Sometimes he imagined his gaseous self moving through long-since inhabited, sprawling neoliberal dystopias, cookie-cutter stations freed from all greyed judgement. Stagnant ovens of any significance gleam without signifier. Just crumbling. Just emptiness. No markets, no delays, no one. The grubby, glass hangars and needles of tomorrow’s, yesterdays assuming a unknowing plain of bureaucratic cognition and veil of transparency to no humans. Just foxes who falsely assume on the utopian impetus of an ideology. But they don’t. Do they?
King’s Cross only remained the centre of the universe for the overwhelmed hubris of the commuter that bestrode its inward-looking (at least for the ubiquity of CCTV) expanse with the cup of one multinational coffee chain or another (it once mattered?), pawing at a frameless smartphone with the freed thumb of another. The ‘day-glo’ silk tie too, exemplifying another allegiance to one emerging micro-trend or another. All the while, confident that it could last forever.
He returned to the golden Miller-time hues of his small, brick-bared room. The phone was ringing. It was her.