At the till a lifesized doll of our country's President, dressed up as Father Christmas, can't seem to stop itself from beaming. She glowers at horizons, shakes her head to remove dank droplets of applause. I am not the centre of this circle. Somewhere in our past we believed in the future that a better world would discover foundation under our feet, and we would be forever singing, in its kitchen.
Bricks pile up in a field.
Whether they will be enough no one knows. How they fit together is anyone's guess. Men with darkening skins scribbled on by weather wait for their instructions. Then the camera lights and racing engines turn around, shrink back from where they came. As for now the doorknobs have no doors.