James/Object Untitled/3I feel myself percolating through the darkness. Everything’stoo close; every time the lights come on, even when there are otherpeople, some part of us doesn’t return. I can’t remember whatstrawberries taste like. When I realized that I nearly tried tokill myself.It’s why we don’t sleep now. Even together there’s bound to bea moment when you’re awake and everyone else is asleep. Just aswell there doesn’t need to be any day or night here. There doesn’teven need to be sleep, theoretically. The problem is habit. We’rehuman, and after a while you begin to miss things; never-endingdaylight and the latest in safe stimulants lose their charm to theseductive call of privacy; retreat to a place that’s yours, sleepfor a little while - just long enough to remember what it’s likebecause forgetting, well...The wall screen flashes on and I roll off the bed in a halo ofwhite light. It shows up the intestine purple carpet and corpsegray walls, I might have described them differently if I wasn’t insuch a macabre mood, but you take what you can get. The infoconsole next to my door says that I have twenty-five messages but Ierase them all immediately. Most of the others just ignore them butI’m always the tempted. Inter officer messages are passed on paperor in person. We don’t like to let each other get too far away.We have to guard against them: the lost ones, our friends andlovers. Eerie, mumbling things in the darkness -
where we put them-
living in the abyss and talking to themselves in broken prophetictones. They crawl, easing themselves along on shattered hands andsliced up hamstrings -
we did that
- of course, they can stilloperate the controls. No matter how we mutilate them, they alwaysseem to find a way. Messages on the intercoms, lifts that come upfrom the depths of the ship and never go back down again -
we’vewelded the doors shut
- we should get used to them. We’ll all belike that one day.