A house. A visiting woman offers me a water pipe. She burns sticks into it while I suck. I feel hot embers in my mouth. In the kitchen, I drink water and spit out embers. I am stoned, hallucinating.
I am in court. They have found the bodies. I decide to confess, and serve my time. It turns out I am not Simon. I’m some kind of genetic experiment. I don’t know my real name. I can only remember being called Simon.
I play with a pile of beige G3 macs in a skip. I think about escape.
I need to leave this country. It is too right wing. I catch a bus from Devon to France. The bus drives around the poles, the quickest way to get to Singapore. They don’t check my passport. In France I’m homeless. I find Tommy C. We sleep on the grass, others in wooden boats made for children to play in.
We meet up with others. We go to a reggae gig in a huge transparent tent. I talk to a bass player, a whirling light keeps banging me on the head. I mistake my friend Hum for Loz.
I meet some homeless rock stars. Our shoe laces are breaking. What is normally a first world problem is a disaster when you’re poor and homeless. We slip and slide on a muddy field. Tommy C crawls away through a pipeline. I find myself back at the house, fussing fat cats with glove puppets that look like fat kittens.