Extract from an on-going Report

If you revel in the pornography of ruins, this is a good time to be alive. Lucas loves to wander through the ruins of the Houses of Parliament on a wet day. Today he’s in the Commons, admiring the fungi aggregating on the green leather upholstery. He walks slowly down the central aisle, avoiding the pools of brackish water that have gathered under those rents in the roof. He pauses at the bench where Prime Ministers used to flaunt their indignation and tears off a clump of soft brownish matter. Is it edible? Could it be harvested for its psychedelic qualities? At the same time, he’s wary. Although the elderly security guard patrolling Millbank seems to tolerate his solitary visits to this dangerous site, waving him through the sagging barrier with a quick nod, he is in a Dead Zone without official clearance. If caught, there could be consequences.

And there’s a deeper unease fermenting in his mind, which makes him drop that lump of fungus. He might have blundered into another time-trap. He could become a captive of the Archons. His Gnostic soundings have certainly hit bottom, he’s in a prison of corrupted flesh, dead man in a rotten body already. Or imprisoned in the decaying infrastructure of yet another virtual universe, a stone planet honeycombed with crumbling Gothic vaults and cracking pillars. No, he’s drifting again. Be careful what you think, it might just happen. The quantum wave function might collapse into anus mundi yet again., to admit more nonsensical shit from the Polyverse.

But according to urban myth this place was once a house of power and ritual. Even now in his sixties he dimly remembers his Marxist mum and her mutterings in front of an old monochrome telly, after yet another State Opening. Those swine adorned with pearls! It is hard to believe that the old Queendom was directed by the chortles and jeers of men popping up and down waving pieces of paper to guarantee war in our time, their time, their lost tranche of time in which so many disasters occurred - not mention the ensuing horrors of the Qliphothic Rupture.The perversity of the unleashed Polyverse ripped up the comfortable consensus about reality-models and took us briefly into the Chaosphere, according to various conflicting accounts. But we don’t talk about that. It was/is unthinkable.

Perhaps he should follow the guidance of the National Management Party and try Focused Forgetting therapy, with neuro-electronic assistance. Harriet downstairs thinks it could become compulsory but the girl’s paranoid. Nevertheless this has been a risky excursion, another psychogeographical expedition into his theatre of memory, for he has to create a viable link with at least one strand of his past. He takes a final look at the tarnished Mace on the Despatch Box. Nobody wants it now, not even the looters. Inexplicable. It’s time to go home, to home-base.

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