Science Fiction Freak

You navigate the streets with all the unconcern that familiarity musters. Here you are, walking past the burnished railings of the cemetery, absently brushing against the small groups of whoevers that congregate at the street corners – Morlocks from an H.G. Wells novel, maybe, or the rump of a heavily-routed army.

Severed strings of discoloured bunting hang from lampposts, and unseen, somebody is shouting, but their words are drowned out by the soundtrack so that only the hum and rumble of traffic is discernible beneath the especially-commissioned orchestral score; and besides, later, the Producer will insist upon a voice-over here, something that spells out that none of this is good, or bad, but decidedly neutral – when you cross the street, cars and buses brake as if precisely choreographed, and as you approach the entrance to the bar, pushing softly against the double doors, your arrival is caught in the panning motion of the camera just as the voice-over trails away in a string of unnecessary punctuation: “You might think that I’m just an old science-fiction freak”…

Dawn of the Replicants / Science Fiction Freak:

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