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[Nov. 12th, 2020|10:24 am] |
Early in the morning, I take my dog for a walk in a large expanse of wasteground which is destined to be (according to a lorry driving delivering hardcore), a centre for drone training. The carpenters doing the roof of the centre usually arrive as the dog is pissing against the fence. They have a fag and have some meat on bread with muffled techno emanating from their third or fourth-hand motors; have a stretch and slowly slide their tools out of the back.
Today, though, there were just two guys in high-visibilty vests standing by their new estates (volvo or subaru). They were in the middle of a vast outside space talking in the manner of people who have been to university - like the transcript of an interview in a publication for the intelligent and informed - words falling in organised fashion as if ideas were blocks in a game of Tetris.
They were both wearing masks.
As if the Earth was an alien place.
Kinky, in a way. Like being suffocated during sex (apparently). |
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