It’s dark in here; dark and cold at the rim of time where the future has ceased to be imaginable. No plan, no hope, no hint of fate to drag us through the day nor flickering candle to guide us through the night.
The ventilation shafts offer up periodical gurgles from the flooded Blackwall tunnel, flooded by the bankers along with The Rotherhithe and DLR tunnels to deny access to Canary Wharf from this side of the river.
The steelwork moans and the cables whistle a tune unwritten by the capricious rules of taste; a tune dictated by the mechanics of need, orchestrated by the wind that flutes its voice through engineered steel and cable.
Deployed above the cloud base unseen, anchored and winched from the ten remaining masts, the megapixel sun kites deliver power to chargers for the batteries nestled on wooden platforms under the Dome’s protective skin.
The substation that fills Peninsular Square was built to deliver the electricity supply for the Village’s domestic consumption. In addition to their roles as controllers and maintainers of this system, the operators supply, in return for genuine protection, all manner of electrical power related tech and support to the gun boys who run logistics between the river and Lewisham; a symbiotic trade relationship.
Exposure to the elements can deliver a spectrum of experience; from the wonders of the existential moment to the horrors of jaw-clenching contact with mortality; much depends on the weather.
Kyree rides the basket up to the winch on the end of mast 6.
The wind’s mild today and he is able to harvest the rewards that come with the breaking of the mundane routine; of living in the moment and concentrating on the task at hand.
It’s an hour before he screws the lid back onto the tub of grease; completing a change of bearings on one of the ancillary guides that had, as they had winched out the kite, alerted them to its plight with a repetitive squeak.
Kyree and his fellow workers are sensitive to the voice of the system; it’s a working relationship.
Leaning back on the basket and glancing over towards the barrier, the corner of Kylee’s left eye is corona-ed by red laser-light.
He is surprised to find that his flight reflex has neglected to kick in and he turns slowly to face the fucker who has him in his sights.
From its source on the penthouse balcony in the oval face of the building across the river; the laser flashes red across both his eyes.
They like to light you up from there, tracing their red dot over your body and sniggering at your reaction.
Sometime, if they’re really bored, they’ll squeeze one off, close enough for you to feel the wind of its passing.
If they’re really, really bored, or just pissed off with the banality of their existence, they’ll make a serious attempt.
Kyree closes his eyes but can still see the play of red light through his lids; it’s an intimate relationship.
It’s dark up here; dark and cold at the rim of time where all futures have ceased to be imaginable; breath held in the moment; no plan, no thought but a flickering red candle of hope to guide him through the moment.
The Dome’s steelwork moans and the cables whistle a familiar tune of mechanical conflict subdued unwritten by the ingenuity of this crafty ape; a tune dictated by the mechanics of need.
The red light ceases and Kyree opens his eyes: the moment is over, as if it had never happened.
The ventilation shafts offer up periodical gurgles from the flooded Blackwall tunnel, flooded by the bankers along with The Rotherhithe and DLR tunnels to deny access to Canary Wharf from this side of the river.
The steelwork moans and the cables whistle a tune unwritten by the capricious rules of taste; a tune dictated by the mechanics of need, orchestrated by the wind that flutes its voice through engineered steel and cable.
Deployed above the cloud base unseen, anchored and winched from the ten remaining masts, the megapixel sun kites deliver power to chargers for the batteries nestled on wooden platforms under the Dome’s protective skin.
The substation that fills Peninsular Square was built to deliver the electricity supply for the Village’s domestic consumption. In addition to their roles as controllers and maintainers of this system, the operators supply, in return for genuine protection, all manner of electrical power related tech and support to the gun boys who run logistics between the river and Lewisham; a symbiotic trade relationship.
Exposure to the elements can deliver a spectrum of experience; from the wonders of the existential moment to the horrors of jaw-clenching contact with mortality; much depends on the weather.
Kyree rides the basket up to the winch on the end of mast 6.
The wind’s mild today and he is able to harvest the rewards that come with the breaking of the mundane routine; of living in the moment and concentrating on the task at hand.
It’s an hour before he screws the lid back onto the tub of grease; completing a change of bearings on one of the ancillary guides that had, as they had winched out the kite, alerted them to its plight with a repetitive squeak.
Kyree and his fellow workers are sensitive to the voice of the system; it’s a working relationship.
Leaning back on the basket and glancing over towards the barrier, the corner of Kylee’s left eye is corona-ed by red laser-light.
He is surprised to find that his flight reflex has neglected to kick in and he turns slowly to face the fucker who has him in his sights.
From its source on the penthouse balcony in the oval face of the building across the river; the laser flashes red across both his eyes.
They like to light you up from there, tracing their red dot over your body and sniggering at your reaction.
Sometime, if they’re really bored, they’ll squeeze one off, close enough for you to feel the wind of its passing.
If they’re really, really bored, or just pissed off with the banality of their existence, they’ll make a serious attempt.
Kyree closes his eyes but can still see the play of red light through his lids; it’s an intimate relationship.
It’s dark up here; dark and cold at the rim of time where all futures have ceased to be imaginable; breath held in the moment; no plan, no thought but a flickering red candle of hope to guide him through the moment.
The Dome’s steelwork moans and the cables whistle a familiar tune of mechanical conflict subdued unwritten by the ingenuity of this crafty ape; a tune dictated by the mechanics of need.
The red light ceases and Kyree opens his eyes: the moment is over, as if it had never happened.
1 comment:
That's the first time anyone's farted in the comments ;o
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