He was being put out to seed. The knacker’s yard loomed. He saw himself become glue to be sniffed by a homeless youth in Merchant’s Arch. It wasn’t all bad news. In a sense, he had achieved immortality. He would live on in the fleeting inebriation of an urchin. He arrived to work wearing a head-mounted display unit, a HMDU. The phrase Christianity is Art flickered before his eyes. A stranger on the bus had asked him: “Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?” It was actually a relief to be at work. Several days earlier he had found himself in a piss-stinking tunnel in a parallel universe. It was raining rats and frogs. She was worried about the starlings in her attic. A man looked at her in the street. He had the face of an unhappy dog. A meeting was called and he found himself in a room full of cyborgs speaking in hashtags. She had vivid dreams about Thoor Ballyle...