The wind is getting up.
X lingers next to a snapped hawthorn bush, resting it’s gaze upon hoax static teetering on the entry to the lost junction.
It scans the traffic below.
‘On a serious point, I don’t know what to believe anymore.’
‘Next page, there’s a picture of his smug face shaking hands with a millionaire opening a block of luxury apartments. This Island is full of RICH paying LITTLE Taxes while the poorer are paying big Taxes, it’s a case of you scratch my back. I will scratch yours.’
I feel as though something is broken, at once unified and divided as my theoretical self rolls around on the aluminium tarmac.