Inkwells run dry and prices rise, so words are at a premium. Only the ostentatiously wealthy display public circumlocution, indulging in vulgar prevarication and tergiversation, while we the people are brief and pithy. There are, of course, alternatives, and although less permanent than traditional methods, I’ve found that the condensation on crowded train windows makes a workable substitute for perfunctory transactions. It’s something in the distance and waiting, a quality hanging between loss and anticipation, with just the right quantities of boredom, frustration, and nothing at all. It serves for shopping lists and to-do lists and, at a push, notices of the untimely deaths in unexpected circumstances of not-too-close relatives. For some reason, the condensation on bus windows, however crowded, won’t work at all. Cars? Don’t be silly. The deeply religious, of course, deny the need for ink and its analogues altogether, proclaiming the utopian democracy of the Digital Kingdom. But where does that leave us? Lost for words. Lies cost nothing and, even since I started typing, this sentence has changed beyond all recognition.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor