2001

The baby next door finally stopped screaming. I don't think that's a good thing.

There's something scuttling in the rubbish out in the backyard of the house again. It sounds big. This single window in my room is very thin. Something could easily smash it out of the frame. The windowframe is so damp that you can literally sink a finger into its grainy mush. I live in one room here, and the door's lock sticks. If something came through the window, I wouldn't be able to get out of the room in time, even though it's less than ten feet across.

Whatever it is, it should leave soon. There's only a couple of scraps out there; some potato skin I couldn't force myself to eat. Though I wish I'd kept some. That epileptic bastard living in the top room upstairs used one of my books as toilet paper again yesterday. And I had to do the same just now.

The bastard upstairs said he'd heard the couple down the street have a television. He was all excited: thought he might ingratiate himself through their door with some of his disgusting home-made tea wine, or maybe nick the thing and bring it back. Wasn't interested. I don't like to see television, or films when they can open the local picture palace. Because they always put on the science fiction stuff.

Which does nothing but remind me that the year 2001 wasn't supposed to be like this. You're taught that, right from when you're a child; spaceships to the moon, a world computer system helping to run everything, talking to people on the other side of the planet with pictures.

Gunfire outside. I think I hear an airplane, but obviously it can't be.

The future wasn't supposed to be like this.

Warren Ellis
Southend, England
February 13 2001