An Underground worker is slowly peeling a poster, the image of a woman comes off the wall. The noise of tearing, the marks of billboard exfoliation. You observe slowly as the train pulls away.

You are on your way to a party in the north. You have an address; a contact; a map. You have never been there. You are out of your territory, slightly unsure whether you should have set out on this late night journey; the rocking of the train makes you sleepy. Is it time for dancing? But then you think about the moment the door opens, and you walk through a suburban labyrinth of coloured rooms, untill you stumble upon bass sounds in the half darkness.

It seems like long minutes since you left the last station, but the train carries on, at the same speed, the same rhythm, shriek, rattle, and jolt. How long between stations, usually? two, three minutes? this time it seems to go forever. You keep expecting the familiar noises of slowing down, the florescent welcome of the next station; but these refuse to appear. The movement does not stop. You think: it's been ten minutes at least. You search for signs of anxiety on the faces around you, and find no trace of it. They seem calm, relaxed, sedated even. As if everything is normal. You do not find this reassuring. They do not understand what is about to come; perhaps they do, and unlike you, they embrace it. You wish you could wake up or - if this is no dream - talk, say something, send a last message; but in the silence of carriage, you know that this would be a mistake for which there would be no penance.

The train slowly comes to a halt in Caledonian Road.

ASCII Nightmares: a true story

You are sitting by a desk, wearing a labratory white coat. The room is large and empty, save three other people. They are dressed similarly, with badges that read TRUE, DISPLAY and CPU. You look at yours: it says FALSE. You have no other name. Your desk is next to the heater. You find this reassuring.
CPU motions to you to carry on. You read out loud
ZERO ZERO
you pause, according to your script. TRUE, sitting opposite you, says:
ONE
and you continue:
ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO
You stop. CPU is looking through his notes, and cuts a piece of paper using scisors.
The woman called DISPLAY collects the piece of paper and glues it to the wall. It's blank. She sits down: you continue.
ZERO ZERO ...

Noise travels to the room from outside: police sirens. Raggae music. A conversation in Polish, (they sound like workers on a cigarette break). You think you're in Hackney. You think you're getting paid for this. You're not sure anymore.

When exactly did all this start, you cannot recall. Nor do you have any idea when it will finish. Your memories have been erased, wiped out. Your script, on the desk, read only zeros and ones. Occasionally you look at the wall to find some meaning. Characters join to make words, and words make sentences. You know you have to write this to the end.

You feel you are about to fall asleep.

vision (1)
I climb the stairs from platform 12 to the footbridge leading to the rest of the platforms. The footbridge is full with people, but they're standing at the two sides, forming long lines. It seems that they are waiting for something. They're all facing me, silently. No one talks, no one moves. On the loudspeakers I hear the voice of a man and a woman: a duet announcement. They speak out of synch. I think she is a second ahead of him. Their words are identical. It is as if they are reciting a poem, or making a prophecy.
24 hours CCTV recording
is in operation at this station
for the purpose of security
and safety management

Do not leave your baggage
unattended.
Baggage unattended
may be removed
or damaged or
destroyed

vision (2)
I'm life-modeling. There is only one person in the class, right in front of me. I'm doing a difficult, elaborate pose. After long minutes, it is time for the break. My hand and neck are all sore, and I slowly unwind. I step down from the platform, put on some clothes. I walk behind the student's easel, to see the drawing. When I reach it I see that he had drawn the platform and the background only, as if I was never there. My figure is nowhere to be seen. The drawing is carefully executed, albeit heavy and lifeless.

palpable

sometimes it rains for hours, she said, and sometimes, it rains for days on end. There's not much you can do about it then. I noticed - for the very first time, I think - a red band holding her hair together.
we spoke about presence, manifestation. I used the word emergence. For months now I've had the image of crossing a threshold in my head. I thought of it as stepping inside. What it is then, this thing that is stopping you, she asked. Does it become easier? suddenly, what had been a transparent but impenetrable wall became painfully visible. I thought of it as a ball of clay and stone, turning to rubble. Yes, I felt it disintegrating, and it hurt.

the moment of awareness, she says, is something to hold on to.