Disclaimer - Read with caution. The views expressed do not reflect those of Vega Collective.

In darkness, beyond the periphery of all that is known. your bones reverberate with the echoes of what will come to pass. The unending halls and corridors envelop U with arterial limbs, a cosmic womb.

— Book of U.

It’s a sad sight – a sorryful situation to have to pass a scene forgotten by its accompanying pedestrians, with their adoring dogs in tow. Like I; they tread through the miserable delights that this dilapidated seaside town has to offer. But it never is, sorryful, that is, is it?

What cruel circumstance drew this about? Treats without their recipients are wasted in the heat. Evaporating and lost to the melting nature of being – in our here-and-now; melding with the stony bed that melds into the harbour (that melds into civilisation that melds into the enviroment). In this moment, we’re inescapably apart of it – it is worrying how close things are becoming; the delicacy of cream and the wafer to the rough and rugged textures of a wall that’s bared the beatings of storms, and the bums of loitering youths. In any case – it was the trembling grip that loosened, detaching from the sticky palms so accustomed to handling the things it desires. Therein the disappointment dictates the fall. And, as if like clockwork, the impersonal – the inorganic, that grows from the slumber-some endlessness of it all – changes the nature of this most delicate of sweets; joy turns into sorrow. It is left, as a patient and un-needing entity of anything but itself. Until the gulls swoop in engulfing the discards – frightening the children.

Indeed, everything here seems digestible and dissolved, in whatever cosmic bodily fluid that oozes around us. Just as an over-bearing mother would coddle the child with the bubble-wrap of life’s packaging; for it to age with nothing more but rags and a terrible temper.

Chemistry, really. The chemistry of the disembodied, I suppose. Is it not the same, ultimately? Just as how colours converge, forming the palette of this unique and fleeting mix-up with strangers, their dogs and the impertinent gulls that pry above. Does this enrich the conclusive picture I have made for myself? It’s hard to say; whether it be my own intestinal tract, filled with the sludge of yesterdays meals, or the gritty shimmering of that grey plateau, where the waters of today gently lap at its feet, as it has done on days as disappointing as this. In either case, what beautiful iridescence there is is eroded into the blue sea. Then into the black ocean – to be pulverised into the grains that make up the surface of the Earth – or whatever planet has me captive at this dreadful resort…