“From 2020”

1. The first half having been given up to space, I decided to devote my remaining life to time, this thing we live in fishily or on like moss or the spores of a stubborn candida strain only to be gored or gaffed, roots fossicked out by rake or have our membranes made so permeable by -azole drugs the contents of the cell flood everywhere. The bubble gun I’d bought on Amazon had come, so flushed, time’s new novitiate, I stood outside the door in velour slippers with a plastic wedge, from M&S, the toes gone through, and practised pulsing softly on the trigger, pushing dribbly hopeless sac shapes out, dead embryos that, managed all the same to right themselves to spheres, and bob as bubbles do, the colour of a rainbow minced or diced into the ornamental tree, or else just brim the fatal fence, most out of reach

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