" It is said that our eyeballs record the last thing we see before we die. That there is a biological pigment locked tight in the back of the retina whose proteins bleach inlight and recover in the dark, leaving some images outlined like drawings in acolouring book. Maps, of a sort.
We look down on these awful people and their endless capacity for enhancement. Sometimes we’re so far above the world, it’s like an electric train set, rigid in its respect of hygiene and good behaviour. There’s slow music on every loudspeaker, it’s sick really. We see the roosters beckoning the morning with their wicked crows. We see sheep flocking. Sheep too being just careless and colloquial terms for ourown insomnia, for how we shepherd in the clouds around us at night like a careful map of cosiness.
And we worry. Of course we do. There are no instructions to live by. No handbook found on special shelves in the elevators of freehold owners. There is little but the wind to guide our hapless folk. Sometimes even our own miraculous wit fails us and we need a rest from demand, from the supply of calibration. We think get a real job and what happens then? We pause for a minute as the world rains its fluorescent ash down on us. We sit motionless for a time, perched upon a point of rocks, fishing lines merry between our knees and suddenly there is the bright spanking future. It jumps up and takes our bait and we are happy. We think even in this maze of grimy back gardens and freakish bimbos there is a pale forehead worthwiping down.
Yes, we need tea. At least we understand that mortal necessity. How it helps torealise one has survived the gentle death of awakening and it’s ok to put shoes on.
We Messrs. do believe in magic. "
Marten, Helen. "The Boiled in Between", page 195-196.