Frozen Hours by Disturbance Signalling System

Outside, it has been snowing for two billion years. We are at the end of an age, and we are trapped in the flat at the end of time. In the dark morning, the cat and I look out of the window upon the deep, glistening snow, it sparkles under the orange street light. Will we go out and piss in it? She asks.

The cold means my coins have frozen. All of my shopping is made from cardboard and plastic, except for the chicken wings which give me salmonella. In my food-poisoning-related psychedelic disturbances I am a loaf of bread, the blanket of my dirty bed is my crust.

All of my essence passes out from my mouth and anus - into the void of the cold flat - they manifest in the form of a beautiful woman dressed in a sleazy police officer’s uniform. Her breasts cushion my head and her mouth whispers secrets to my cock. I’m just using you for sex, she tells it.

We at the end of time and the clocks are frozen. All those hours lost in Amphetamine madness led us here. The shouting, screaming, and fucking - transported us in flux, now here I am alone, in the isolated, northern winter of forever. Police woman fades away saying: don’t love me, you sad boy.

I float around. Lost, slowly fading. Until the cat’s eyes glow with a golden, green shimmer, all lit up, set against the black of her fur. She tells me: it’s okay, you’re home, here in the flat, at the end of time. You always were.

We piss in the snow, the branches of empty trees of the park waving in a lugubrious salute.

Currently I am not a human; I am an insect.