I lay my head on the thin, cold morning, and listen to the other side. There are drones swarming across the carcass of the dreaming city, scavenging in the rot and ruin, while white men in black suits carve up the world’s still-beating heart. The soundtrack’s simultaneously sentimental and bombastic, an AI placebo for all those finer feelings that we wrapped in tissue and laid down in the cellar before the flood. And then there’s the laugh track, stripped from 70s sit-coms and slung into the mix to sweeten the amaranthine ache. But there are also small voices, asking, What now? What next? Barely perceptible, the morning warms and thickens.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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