One way to guarantee vivid dreams, I find, is to smoke tobacco immediately before going to bed – tho’ the sleep that follows tends to be shallow and broken. Last night there was an extended fantasy about human couples who, in the absence of biological offspring of their own, adopted cyborg children; with consequences alarming enough to provide, I thought when I woke, the basis for a feature film.

In another hyper-real transaction, I stopped for a woman, with luggage and children, in High Street, only to see her  knocked down in front of me by a rogue taxi trying to gazump the fare. She was shaken and bruised but not badly hurt; in the aftermath, we both recalled the other driver jamming out his cigarette on the inside trim of the door of his car, ash and red coals showering from his fingers. There’s no movie in that.

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