living dependent on the digital anaesthetic of the computer screen . Cultivating code , he lost himself in the stupor of strange languages . Within , the dust thickened , hardening the man ’ s heart .
It was the computer that killed . He would often scream at the machine . If he had waited for his mother and not ran across the road in greedy anticipation of his present , his mother would have lived . The tragedy too terrible , his punishment clear – a life spent with that which he had traded for his mother . Computers . And the dust . The dust creeped into his veins , a needle for the pain . A surprise . The man became a father . “ You don ’ t deserve to be a father ,” whispered the dust . “ Why ?” asked the man . “ You have me ,” replied the dust . The dust seeped up from his lungs and became his breath .
The mother kept the girl from him , another father found to trust . The man didn ’ t have the strength for the fight , loss had become the standard for his life . The dust grinned , glad for him not to care , glad to make him numb . The dust loved the man more , burrowed into his brain and became his thoughts .
Older , slower and weighed down by the dust , the man found solace in the pubs , where talk turned to sports , and sports became all , anything other than that which was within . The dust soaked up the single malt , dragging it to the pit of the man ’ s stomach where the last of his lingering hope hid , and drowned it . Worn out and empty , the man
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