The Psychotic Creative

I am working with a friend. We invent a huge frame that generates images by flipping parts if them. Experimenting, we discover we can create 3d shapes, and eventually, what looks like a page from a Boden catalogue. Two of these images are videos. A woman walking happily around a corner, and then rushing back chased by my psychotic colleague.

My colleague tries to phone someone to share the great discovery. I jump on him and tell him to watch the video. He watches. We see him take smart drugs, cut with skimmed milk and caffeine. Not healthy, they make you psychotic.

He thinks this is great, and runs off to drink some more. His football boots clatter in the cobbles as he runs, startling a tabby cat.

I am in a city. I wear a sarong and carry a sleeping bag. I ask where I am.

St David’s.

The smallest city in Wales. I ask for directions to the train station. I get there, crawling off a train carrying a cup of black coffee, trying not to spill it.

My partner is at the ticket office. We are in 1800s America. We have a time machine stashed nearby. I dance with a tall flapper girl and sell her glittery tattoos to raise our fare. We go through the office, a Native American is sat in a booth, reciting a list of comedians who should not have made movies. I volunteer Selwyn Froggett and Frank Carson. He seems happy with this.



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