I wander along Peryton Way as X drifts along Lakeside scanning the invisible waves of digital clutter.
“Perceptual manipulation…constant oxygen reduction…cognitive efficiency…’
X tunes out, drifting towards the 5G 1ms latency rainstorm on the A180 slipway.
https://europarc.blog/2020/10/23/a-m180-works-in-progress-2/
Cryway to heaven.
‘This doesn’t make any sense.’
A small pile of horror.
The business zoom meeting has over-run again – amidst talk of blue-sky optimism.
Try to make the most of your liminal friends.
X zooms in on the cloud of greyness.
X zooms in on digital radio waves emanating from a DFDS haulage truck east of Belton.
“All based on this questionable form? I’ll tell ye what, there are huge sums of money at stake. Terms and conditions apply. More and more globally forgotten. Offer ends 25th of October. Excluding 20 percent VAT. Available on selected games. Devastating outbreak.”
Zoom out.
I search for the water tower but can only see Outmill and Border TV.
R. U. O. K?
No.
I take a left off at Great Coates Interchange, the last exit prior to downtown Grimsby, glancing at my rear view as I ease along the slip lane.
I drift by a couple of roundabouts, pulling over at the non-road adjacent to the Beechwood Farm pub.
A white Covid Warden van driven by a harassed looking fluorescent jacketed man has pulled up behind me. [I noted the vehicle coming into view on numerous occasions throughout my journey from Barnetby Top].
It reverses and moves away after a minute or so.
I pause for a moment, gazing through the series of repeating mirrored gantries lining their way along the perimeter of Vaconsoft Parkway.
X adjusts its range and zero’s in on a series of flickering texts hovering across the original externalised grassed map of the Beechwood Farm pub.
A muffled conversation.
‘Yep, yeah…really? No. Crucial factor? You too. You too. I know. I know. I wish I could…bye.’
‘Separation.’
‘Individuation.’
The text floats and fades gently into the digital soil pixels of the business park wasteland.
The wind is getting up.
X lingers next to a snapped hawthorn bush, resting it’s gaze upon hoax static teetering on the entry to the lost junction.
It scans the traffic below.
‘On a serious point, I don’t know what to believe anymore.’
‘Next page, there’s a picture of his smug face shaking hands with a millionaire opening a block of luxury apartments. This Island is full of RICH paying LITTLE Taxes while the poorer are paying big Taxes, it’s a case of you scratch my back. I will scratch yours.’
Scan out.
I feel as though something is broken, at once unified and divided as my theoretical self rolls around on the aluminium tarmac.
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