Echoes Below

The area around a vintage cabinet is surrounded by a nearly invisible shield where time stands still. There is a thick plume of smoke emanating from the cabinet and grows bigger and bigger. One man is on the outside of that shield and records what he can find on a camcorder for research purposes. The more the plume of smoke (resembling an underwater iceberg) reaches out, the more the shield has to claim new territory. The man steps backwards as delicately as possible. A creepy song plays as we cut out.

We're to watch a film from a projector but the projector makes too much noise - a high pitched squeal. Eventually we get it working but the school is getting demolished. As the cranes come through the walls, We run to the other side of the building and watch all our belongings slip and fall into the river. We jump into the river to retrieve as much of our possessions as we can.

2 men and a girl are walking from a street to a house. One of the guys and the girl disappear behind a door while the other looks crestfallen despite protestations that he doesn't mind.

It's a dark, night. Everything's in black and white. A well off man with bags of confidence goes through the crowd. He talks with another man before going into a building. After he opens a second door, we cut to a play being represented in colour. A woman in a red dress moves balletically across the stage to a sofa where she takes the covers off to reveal some books. This motion is repeated twice and once she picks up the books, a man with a Belfast accent holding a gun tells her to put the book down insisting "We don't want to get hurt do we?"

Jeremy Corbyn asking the British prime minister question which he fails to answer. Cameron's head and that of a few others resemble that of a pig. "You've still not answered my question?" "Well what do you expect? What do you want us to do?" A lady MP with a glass of wine in her hand walks to the side. One MP is fast asleep. They motion to him and put two fingers at his throat. Suddenly smoke appears from his suit which has then turned into pyjamas. His eyes are wide awake now. The smoke intensifies. Everyone around him is motionless in shock. The smoke moves away from him for one brief second and then viciously attacks him and disappears inside him. He's dead.

I don't know where I go in this grand stage. The sense of time becoming lost in a great fear. Injuries and complaints multiply in large doses. Broken thought patrols that control inside. Your concern makes me yearn for a kind of friendship. Even if nothing comes of it, it's the building blocks of a rehabilitation. Unqualified for nothing more than dust. The schemes of future dreams elude me at the best of times. And when there is nothing left, I want to see where it leaves me. Return back if there's anything left to salvage. Nothing left there but pride. An instrument in gliding through the secrets of the past. But pride disappeared a long time ago. If it can manage, I would enjoy the thought of being nothing else but the conversations we had two weeks ago. Your flights to London, Brisbane and Vancouver. I want to be a tourist in your thoughts and speech. I've this recurring feeling of care homes. Wheelchairs dreaming of another life. A tourist in your heart to numb...

Lying in the secret stages of a new light. A secret bond beneath the memories of last year. It's everybody and nobody. Like pretty much everything, there's no secrets anymore. There's no hope, there's no fear. I look away in the hope that something new will appear. A list of love, longings and despair. The disparate dreams of a bruised ego broken into the summing up of lifeless decay. Your placement slices erotic motions in private reels. A dream may come alive but I'm feeling old and I don't know how to move on. A new destination would've helped because it's a secret that will be spent rejuvenating the tiredness that seeps into the fragmented life I've got living away inside. Every motion I speak of, kills the chance of that secret conversation we speak of. I wither and dither. To leak out in whispers in silent suffering.

If echoes were truly a dream, I would've vanquished the demons that live inside. Instead I'm left with dreams of a corruption of identities. Profit and loss, an inevitable part of daily life. I slowly come to terms with the rejection. My biggest dream became a nightmare of my own making. Taking pictures on smartphones, it was a religion, I knew only to myself. Part of my disconnection grew ever more. I still get my pills from there. Slyly though, there's a girl who passes on her discount to me. We seem to chat - a default of nationality. And in a default of my sexuality, I wonder how it would be if it were seen as an affair. It probably wouldn't, but the thought intrigues me. He's very nervous around me.....it's kinda funny, I suppose. The trapped anxiety of a waking nightmare, the sound of euros in tills being missed due to my own inadequacy to his expectations. Steamrollers my joy into a deathless agony. But I move on. Slowly. Through the trail of a snail, I...

I've always been riddled by a vague sense of that foreboding spiral. The great quantitative abyss that constitutes life. Days wash by without ever seeming to stick. At times I wonder if I'm a robot malfunctioning or just a hapless zombie waiting for the good guys to stick an axe to my head. I've never been good at figuring out which one is me. I suppose that's the point. The heightened anxiety that pervades in and around my life like secret spies tapping into my thoughts. Speech has become nullified. A context with which I cannot take part in any more. I wanted to sever my vocal chords but somebody got to me before I got the chance. I hadn't even made the decision as to whether it would've been a rope or a knife but you get the idea. I live for the days I go to hospital, I feel strangely alive there. They are the highlight of my life. Stranded on a bed, alone, with my eyes on the blue skies outside while the pain in my fractured wrist seeps out into the b...