An antennae scans beyond the horizon.
The packing crate is shifted in the hold of a cargo flight, moving as far as it can against the cables and ties restraining it.
Blood is rinsed from hands, the water returning to clear in the stainless steel sink.
He cycles in a mask. Coiled aggression channeled into carbon fibre.
We hear words: “When I visit the shop
and they do not have what I want,
I feel a sense of hopelessness.
I feel as if my whole life is a failure”
Cars cruise idling at 80mph. A sliding tapestry of stitchwork lights, heading in opposite directions.
She speaks: “I feel as if I must buy something. To validate the visit. To validate me. To validate my needs”
Half built buildings stand by. They wait. Wires hanging, gaps where their windows should be. On pause.
The river bends here, and as it careers around the corner, it sheds foam and bleached sticks, bottles, the head of a doll, a filthy traffic cone. Sunk into the sand is a trolley. Coin still in the slot, but too far, too treacherous for anyone to dare a retrieval. Risk outweighing reward.
We hear words: “It is not so much that I want to define myself. More that I want the job to be finished. I want to sigh and place down my bags. I want to fix myself a cup of tea”
Clouds of starlings erupt.
A child careers up the path, legs looking as if they will go from underneath them. Behind him trudges a parent, pushing a buggy with the resigned air of a ploughman. The child stops, exhausted and just sits down. Right there. Just sits down. As if that’s something you can just do, as if you’re allowed to just sit down and stop because you are tired. There and then.
The robot arm moves back and forth with a high pitched whine. Swiveling and plunging.
We hear words: “It is everything. Y’know, just I want to breath out and say, there it is, that’s what I need, I’m safe now, I’m provided for, I’m safe.
Moss grows in guttering, little purple stalks, tendrils reaching for light. Moss grows on. Slowly. Surely.
The book is taken from its shelf, flicked through, turned over and dismissed. Placed back, in the wrong place.
The church is empty. A single candle burns. The donation box is light. It smells of old stone and old books. It deadens sound.
A satellite dish hangs, rusted and useless on the corner of a pebble dashed building.
We hear words: “It is that I will have to go, again, to take that risk again, to face that feeling again, that whole tension and indecision, the ring road, the which lane, the finding a space to park, the when should I go, now or later and what if they don’t have it and I waste more time. What if I waste more time, when I just crave to be, finished. To sit down, breathe out and rest. Finished. Done. Over.”
The television plays at the end of the aisle. It is so big, the picture looks ghostly, belying the promise of clarity and sharpness promised by the paper banner that obscures a third of the screen.
The plate is pushed aside, wiped clean, mopped up. Blank now but for knife and fork.
The clouds rise from a doorway. A break.
The punchbag is thumped and thumped and thumped until her knuckles are red raw, salty sweat stinging her eyes, hair matted.
We hear words:“In the most empty of places I find peace. I am at one amongst places devoid of any spiritual meaning”
The traffic light is temporary. It is obeyed.
Leaves pool in the grid, swirling in grey water.
He dives and breaks the surface with barely a splash. White tile echo is dulled as he streaks through the water and rises to the surface.
Somewhere in the thicket, there is a fox and it’s cub.
We hear words: “I don’t know where things come from. Where they get it from. I want it to be there, on that shelf, but I don’t really know what it is or where it came from”
A kid is playing the trumpet. He’ll never be any good, but he hasn’t yet realised that. The agonised noise is frustrated but hope keeps him going.
A clock face is reflected in a puddle.
An escalator glides emptily till an elderly lady gingerly steps aboard, rearrnging her bags from two hands to one to allow herself to hold the rail.
Listen closely and you can hear the sound of an ancient river under the manhole cover.
We hear words:: “I don’t know where things come from. I don’t know how they get there. I don’t know anyone who makes these things, but I just want them to be there. Then I can sigh, breathe out, release the weight from more arms, sit down, slump, into the embrace of the sofa, fix myself a cup of tea, let my shoulders relax and drift into a dream knowing I am done, I am finished. I have what I need and I do not need for anything”
Red light reads lines. Turns lines into numbers. Numbers become some kind of meaning somewhere. Somehow.
An ant scurries in no particular direction. Lost. Instinct gone. Backward and forward. Hesitant.
