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You are pedaled through the Harrop Solarium which is a pointless room paid for by some vain and wealthy cripple. You look down slowly, a slow, slow tilt to your pins. You see them in discount sports shoes. They are the type with very low density foam soles, with areas of netting and some lozenge shaped window-void, imitating the Nike Air series. They have been laced up to the top and are jammed in the chrome footrests of a transit wheelchair.
This is what two million people in Britain have seen.
You are left next to another person who looks a bit like you, but less grave and less continent. Hospital staff are talking.
“I stayed at this girl’s house, she gave me a sleeping bag, I was too drunk, I was sick all inside it.”
“What happened?”
“I just went back to sleep.” Said the gay nurse man. He looked like an old man shrank into youth. He looked like a Narwhal Heroin.
“She was pretty angry. She came to wake me up and I curled round and all that captive vommit air wafted then into her face. “I Didn’t even want to stay. She was going on about being lonely, she was going on about having a stroke because her mother had one at that age.”
Here you fall asleep. It’s that usual dream. God is interrogating you about modern pornography. In this dream you are in a transit wheelchair and discount sports shoes. The room is square, and definitely Soviet. God begins (tediously represented here in capital letters) his questioning.
“DID THOSE PEOPLE KNOW WHAT THEY WERE DOING WITH THOSE COSMETICS?”
“I don’t know”
“DID THEY THINK HOW THOSE LIPS WOULD RESOLVE LIKE THEY DID ON THIS VIDEO FORMAT?”
“I’m not the right person..
“HOW DO YOU THINK PEOPLE WILL LOOK AT THIS IN 500 YEARS?”
“Please, I don’t know. I don’t look at the internet, I am in a wheelchair. Outside of the Hospital is terrifying.”
And then your wheelchair slowly gets hot before it turns into a compound vista of wholesale group sex.
When you were little, you were scared that God was malicious and created the universe as a dungeon to persecute and terrify innumerable souls.
