I thought I’d be writing more about the very fabric of these rooms, shapes, structure, layout... you know, the initial activation. The first moment, before colours and objects and acts. But it’s not speaking to me. I’m listening to it, but it’s almost monotone. Walls are walls, baths are baths, toilets are toilets. Things really are as they seem.
I go into the toilet to use it, although I’m looking more than before, I’m still under the usual functional distractions. The body is busy, and mind pulled along... not dislocated... getting involved.
It wonders such strange pointlessness’, ‘Can I touch the ceiling?’ and enacts the test, with inevitably positive results. And there I’ll stand holding it up, biding my time before getting on with more pressing concerns. I vocalise a few lyrics that are looping my thoughts, let these pesky beasts loose, let them their raucousness outside of my brain, they’ve drained.
Piss.
I check my pulse.
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