It’s always the day after something: anniversaries, elections, terrorist atrocities, or flash sales. There’s a temporary screen in the town square that I think is for sport, but when I get closer it’s showing the procedure for if a gunman opens fire. If you are able to evacuate, get as far away from the danger area as possible … An ellipsis like a held breath, or the heartbeat you will to stop for fear it may be too loud. The police may be unable to distinguish you from the attacker, they may treat you firmly … A new ellipsis the weight of panic, the weight of a small rucksack, the weight of off-the-record accounts the day after a failed bombing attempt. Include anything else you think is important. A full stop, uncompromising, a hollow point through presumed guilt. It’s the day after escalated uncertainty, a distant relative’s birthday, the unrecorded loss of a refugee boat, a charity dinner for old Etonians, a party in the park, a longer queue at the food bank. Stop others from entering the area.
Illustration Nick Victor