Slip in another pill and off we go. Little magic yellow-bullet, full of tricks and chemical secrets to hush you away down Memory Lane. Flick a little switch and trip. Into the rabbit hole. Deeper and deeper, sleepy-head.

​

This is the new science. Designed to make your twilight days bearable ones. Banks of machines made of soft pastel plastics and inoffensive hums, stoking the warmth of nostalgia. In the autumn glow of memory the shadows – inevitable as they are – seem further away.

 

Families will pay a lot to get their relatives onto one of the Halcyon schemes. It’s harmless and absolutely beautiful. A marvel of modern engineering, so fuck the ethics. Fuck those who can’t pay, or can’t afford to keep on paying.

It’s easy enough to pull a plug.

 

Such a simple procedure! A six-week plan of bio-hardware implantation, minor cortex surgery, a bit of sensory-wiring and restricted diets then full integration into the Halcyon matrix. Painless. Better than bridge, bedsores and bi-weekly bingo anyway.

 

[You know, sometimes I think it’s a disgrace – an utter disgrace – how we used to treat our elderly.

Fucking prehistoric].

 

Just slip in another pill and off we go. Magic yellow-bullet, full of tricks and secrets. Down Memory Lane. Into the rabbit hole. Deeper. Deeper.

 

It’s a complicated science, mapping brains. Turning those electric echoes - ebbing, fading - into lines of code. They talk about ‘wave hyper-formats’ and ‘neuron restimulation’ in the glossy brochures on the clinic coffee tables.

 

  [scarborough / ice cream / sand : 34-9887[8**7] /rrt[5.778] / 4512[2*]]

  [churchyard/ green moss / white dress : 99-8786[7*33] / ynj[67.8] / 7908[6*]]

  [spring / meadow-flowers / red dog : 23-8734[1*3*] / fnd[8.2133] / 1221[4*]]

 

Extracted. Processed. Banked. Available at a mouse-click, on demand.

 

Simulated past-truths. Synthesised through smell and taste and touch. The drugs they give you sensitise and strengthen the cerebral cortex. They make it sing. They make your memories live.

 

They make them real.

 

They make them flesh.

​

And you’re really living them. Kissing, laughing, drinking, smiling, fucking, seeing. Sun. Sky. Soft. Cold. Fresh breath in lungs, inhale and out. Younger. Better. Happier [?]

 

Beyond the dream-world here is a genuine second-life. Another chance to live. You’re there. Again. For the first time.

 

And you don’t even know it’s artificial until you wake up [really wake up] and there’s Nurse, smiling that practised smile, waiting to change your nappy.

​

You curse yourself for believing the bespoke lie you helped to customise. The memories you and your family selected [exploited] to bring joy to a decaying body and soul. Because you felt you were there. Apart from you weren’t. Once, perhaps, but never again. And in this air and this light you feel it. This real air and real light makes it clear what the true reality is.

 

Apparently, oxygen tastes different in dreams.

 

Anger. Rage. Rage at these shaking hands and old skin, seen through cloudy eyes and woollen thoughts. So you grope for Nurse and beg for the medicine, the machines, and the memories.

 

And soon enough she’ll see to you, depending on what plan you’re on.

Another pill, off we go. Yellow-bullet, tricks and secrets. Down. Into the hole. Deeper.

 

i kick out my legs arms go too and yes here i am i am swimming in a hot sea with the green fish and i see my sister smiling splashing ahead on holiday away from school lobster and white linen and fancy sugared sweets it’s great here let’s stay forever and ever i love the water i wish i was a fish

 

Ha.

​

You’d never know. The scientists spent a long time working on that part.

 

‘Pinch your skin, see if we care. We dare you’.

 

It’s an incredibly complex, secure and sophisticated computer program. Next to no glitches, aside from the occasional déjà vu.

​

that was weird been here before i think oh well ignore it move on now where was i  oh yes

 

And, yes, there’s controversy and protests. That clinic in Hampstead got firebombed last April.

 

Those people say that old age is beautiful. Even dying lights still burn. It’s nature, so meet it without fear. Enjoy it, because death can be an adventure.

 

I disagree.

 

I heard about a woman in Penzance who relives her third marriage every day, for the first time. Her husband beats her with a lawn-chair and makes her face bleed. He shouts. He’s a drinker and smells stale and spoiled. But she loves him [loved him; the old bastard’s been dead thirty years or more probably] and it’s whatever makes you happy, I suppose.

​

And happiness makes you live longer. Apparently.

​

Longer to gorge on the fake past as your beautiful present. It could be seen as counter-productive. It could be seen as kind.

​

Halcyon don’t mind. Don’t care. So long as you can pay, like I said. They’ll hook you up and shovel you this superprocessed shit for years.

 

It’s not a bad thing. When the day comes I don’t want to be helped chew my food. Wipe my dribble and slip me another pill. Christ, let me forget. Let me remember instead.

 

I stumbled across one of those online conspiracy forums one night. The tinfoil-heads who try to convince you that maybe you’re plugged into a Halcyon memory-box right now, because how would you know any different? You could be a ninety-five year old cripple in the Shady Pines Retirement Home.

 

It’s bullshit, of course. I know my true reality – feel the keys at my fingertips, smell my home, hear the rise and fall of my wife’s chest as she sleeps beside me. It’s bliss and it’s real and I know that.

 

Ten miles west my father doesn’t know. As he navigates his yacht around Cape Horn, propped up in his hospital bed. Sea-wind on his face, fast asleep.

 

And, anyway, how could I dream if I was already dreaming? If you know nothing at all you at least know yourself.

 

i’m here and i am happy and this is me now even if i feel it sometimes you know that little nag slight suggestion of a suspicion something not making sense oh well ignore it move on now where was i oh yes

 

Pill. Bullet. Tricks. Secrets. Down. Deeper.

 

Sleepy-head.

​

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DORMIVEGLIA was written late one night, while the whole world was sleeping but I could not. It's about a lot of things [as stories always are] - technology as both salvation and curse, old age, memory, conspiracy, death - the usual stuff that rattles around your head at 2am. I think it's a good little ghost story for our digital age. And I still don't know which I'd choose: my own impending mortality, or a neat little computer programme perfectly designed to bliss my ignorance. Which would you? 

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You don't have to answer that now. There's plenty of time to think on it.

Late in the night, say 2am, while the whole world is sleeping and you can not.