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The lights come on.
The
empty lift comes down.
The
day passes.
The
empty lift goes up.
The
lights go off.
I'm
trying to write something about THE BUNKER DIARY, but the more I think about
it, the more confusing it gets. What am I doing? Thinking. Thinking? What's
that? Thinking? How does that work?
I
think about that and my head starts spinning.
It
gets worse.
I
imagine myself as being nothing more than fifty-three years of bone, skin,
muscle, brain, blood, meat, and jelly. I imagine symbols inside my head.
Electric things. Circuits. Tubes. Spatial patterns frozen in time. Tiny things.
Bits of stuff. Short jagged strings. Carbon.
Components.
Stuff.
I
think about it.
I
think about what that stuff can do.
It
can move me. It can walk.
It can breathe. It grows. It can see. It can hear, feel, smell, taste. It can
like and hate. It can want. It needs. It can fear. It can speak. It can laugh.
It can sleep. It can play. It can wonder. It can lie. It can remember. It can live with doubts and
uncertainties. It
can sing, la la. It can dance. It can dream. It bleeds. It coughs. It blinks.
It shivers and sweats. It sleeps.
It's
complicated.
It
can:
Analyse,
co-ordinate, destroy, secrete, control, generate, degenerate, synthesise,
emote, regulate, calculate, imagine. It can run, jump, judge. It can catch a
ball. And dance. And fight. And cry. It can know at night that the morning will
come. It can spit, recognize, ride a bike. It can kill, whistle, ask. And
forget. It can hope. And hurt. It can come to know that there's nothing to
know.
And it can, and it does, tell
stories. Goodreads • Amazon • Waterstones
Great post! I read another one of the author's guest posts and they are really unique. I'm so intrigued :) Thanks for sharing, Amber!
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