Civilization as we know it may not be collapsing as such, but it needs an elbow to lean on when crossing the road or climbing stairs, so I do what I can, when I can. On long walks over short distances, it tells me of its aches and pains and how it sometimes regrets the foolishness of its youth. Capitalism, for instance, was cool at the start, with the occasional shot in the arm doing no one any harm, though like any recreational usage that becomes an addiction, it needed more and more for less and less, until it couldn’t see for the storm of snorted money and couldn’t feel anything at all. As we wait for the lights at the zebra crossing, it tells me about the sickly-sweet ecstatic rush of its first crypto, but how even that wore off. Then, it leans in low and looks at me with eyes like a lost and hungry puppy, and it tells me in a hushed whimper that now they’re trading with stars. Look, it says with spittle streaking its chin. Sirius, Canopus, Alpha Centauri, Arcturus, Vega. It holds out a mottled palm with fragments of shattered windscreen. Beautiful, I sing-song with sympathetic disgust, and close its fingers gently as I consider nudging it into the roar of flash cars going who knows where.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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