‘There’s nothing like a new book to write in’ said Alice, ‘It’s as good as the first bite of an apple or having a whole box of chocolates to investigate’
Disconnected from the internet and the vagaries of competition brought by monitoring one’s friends, peers and mortal enemies’ status updates, and the boastful comments of knowing self-derision, Alice was finally free. It had been a bruising season in the city and the train she’d caught, by running, was carrying her far from the digital overexposure of a life spent networking, jumping from one head to another like a toad across the leaves of a lilly pond.
Cluthing her decaf Americano with Irish cream and hot soya – yeah, soya on top of the Ameriano or it would be white, alright? – the houses sped to fields and she wondered if spring would ever break the black skeletons of the trees. They stood like herself, an apocalyptic silhouette against the sky which ruled her mood.
Battered by the X-ray vision of largin it on social platforms far higher than the footwear of Gaga or Elton John, these contributions were the cataclysmic combination of manic overachievers, obsessed with their own vanity, their external perception displayed is jousts of 140 character wit.