Friday, 20 May 2016


A luckless screenwriter comes up with a new plot: The government is turning immigrants into zombies.

The story arc is taking shape. Joshua saw the narrative landscape neatly laid down before him: all the endless possibilities, all the overhead and wide shots, all the character trajectories blazing across the firmament. All he had to do now is write it down.

His fantasy life is great, but his real life is a drag. Maybe it’s his droopy eyes that, in a more flattering light, could appear contemplatively sorrowful or the slight overbite that often made him look unduly perplexed.

His dream life isn’t great either. It’s not that he had nightmares.  Nobody ever bothered to chase him in his dreams; he never plunged from a tall building. What tormented him was that his dreams were inconclusive, they did not so much abruptly end as they whimpered their lame way into his watchful state.

What does Joshua want out of life? It was fair to say that the minimum requirement for a truly enjoyable existence would be unbridled promiscuity.

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