It’s like having a dream in which you find yourself in the
familiar surroundings of your home town, only the details are wrong and things
are crumbling. The shops and offices and banks and tea rooms and hairdressers
are in unfamiliar places. One shop has a door missing, another has a broken
window, a third has its sign hanging loose. The statue of the local hero has
fallen over and the town hall clock has stopped, while the wind blows dry and
fallen leaves along the high street even though there are no trees in sight.
And you don’t know why. How did matters come to this, and is there anything you
can do about it?
It’s all to be observed, I suppose, as everything always is.
But what am I observing exactly? The passage of a troubled time in my life and
the ongoing history of the world, or a rent in the illusory nature of what we
call reality?
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