There is a new installation in the tallest building in the city. It releases gas that kills artists.
There is an interactive piece of fiction encircling us – they cannot escape.
Not much has changed, except Lilah coughs now, and the graffiti does not catch my eyes anymore.
Any act of rebellion is either formulaic and easily thwarted, or creative, which kills the rebels.
I saw a black mask with huge eyes and a trunk like an elephant’s. I didn’t know what it was for. It looked like art. It was in a locked room in the Building where I work.