Making It About Memory

I must go to the supermarket. I must stride the aisles in hunter mode. Olympian grace.

Shoulder the bag of rice. Hook the nine-pack of loo-roll over the trolley, under the handle. It knocks against my knees. No mind.

Prey do not scatter as the squeaky wheel betrays me again and again. They are insensate of me. Corn without ears. Spuds without eyes. Legs of lamb that will never again frolic in the fields. Cattle tamed of every low.

Yet I strut my way on towards the checkout. I make ready the plastic of my spear. Not sharp, yet heavy with wealth.




The life support wakes me. My reverie lost. Eyes flicker to my nest of tubes and wires and I remember. I will never shop again.

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