SEARCH & PRESS ENTER

I sign centred

As he walked he rehearsed his presentation. He wondered at what point rehearsal stopped? What was rehearsal for? Making the same journey over and over again was a necessity of learning. The corridors of movement were zones of diminished responsibility, public excursions of the imagination.  He enjoyed the rhythmic / arhythmic rattle and speech of the mechanical worms. They echoed the repetitive ramblings of the deranged deviant. 

They arrived at the station. I sign centred. Somebody had put small pieces of masking tape, equally spaced on the circular tiles on the wall of the underground. Each piece the words, I sign centred. The impromptu nature of this makeshift advertisement disarmed the public. They wanted something more technologically advanced and couldn’t accept the austerity of the advert. Dismissal and resentment bubbled into anger, and soon a number of middle aged men in slightly threadbare polyester suits started a conflict. The music of the migrant busker gave a soundtrack to the clumsy argy-bargy that ensued. People watched with wonder and held unsaid hopes that an accident with the oncoming train would put a satisfying end to this misdirected dissatisfaction.

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