A hermetic suburb ringed by derelict overpasses.
The low sun etching grainy pebbledash and plaster. Internal walls pucker grey-veined “new flesh”.
Pink sporocarps in tenement halls, tumescent foam mattresses fruit delicate engines over stained concrete. Roaches juiced with bone or collagen radii.
Hear them pine, their agony. It makes you want to hurt them some more, for justice’s sake.
The evisceration of time replicates in the talismanic zeroes.
Projects to resuscitate the dead ignore the immense traffic beyond the orbital. Its crawling luminescence mimics familiar cities or constellations.
There is a crucial difference in expression between the dialectic of extinction and the zero which etches the former into a stark relief.
Despite its manifest abstraction zero is unreasoningly affective.
The mainland bombing campaign claimed 11 lives the previous year. Bogus warning are circulated to pin down police and intelligence resources, hampering commerce and travel.
The few tourists we see cluster around cultural sites from stoic commitment. Listless drudges on a government scheme, or homeless psychotics. In the auditorium, jangling electronica plays a trauma memory of some exoskeletal future.