Europarc Project… A vague aroma… Aniseed. Remembering holidays of youth that never took place on the Isle of Great Complexity. Sand revealed under slabs of fortitude. DFDS caught in my eyeballs. Locals sheepishly talk about their prophet Farage…

And the Brexiteer Ultra’s would seethe and scowl on the Innovation Way roundabout…

Snapshots of an erased past as I progressed along a path of gold.

A vague aroma of processed food followed by a dead end.

Yara oil tank.

Tombstone.

The swallows have returned for a while.

We wandered around for a while as Nan tuned-in the Tynwald Road wireless for the last time.

Fffwd 8 years.

I looked up at the stars on an abandoned trip to the Mexican border as X made it’s way along the scrub land that was to  become Genesis Way.

X circled around and around and around…

X shuffled along Europarc Innovation Way and tuned into Media City.

A cameraman sat in Pret a Manger and watched an elderly couple talking next to the Blue Peter Garden.

• This way for street food.
• Children rolled down the hills of hope as the sun reflected off steel walkways.
• In the red zone, a young woman rested next next to a flower bed whilst eating a pack up on a break from her mobile apps junior tester role.
• Empty five-a-side court.
• A blonde haired young professional, ripped jeans, phone, sandals and shades waited for nobody outside Booths.
• Food…wine…groceries.
• Poetic injustice streams beamed into the national unconsciousness.

Meanwhile, back on Europarc, X drifted along Genesis Way and focused upon a faded invoice…