In 2020, the western world’s Forgetting of Air returned to haunt it.
In 2020, column-free coworking spaces lubricated the spread of a novel cellularity.
In 2020, the path through Kennington Park was scrawled with Metric Handbook Fan Fiction
In 2020, an infodemic burnt down the very 5G masts that had misinformed its vandals.
In 2020, a rogue piece of RNA became the MacGuffin of every moral crusade.
In 2020, there were three types of people: those who could Work-from-Home, and Key Workers, and.
In 2020, every public surface clung as contact with the fomites of a global pandemic, while every contact from my global family became reduced to a surface experience on 13 inch screen.
In 2020, work was augmented, meetings were potemkin exercises in facadist ideal home showing.
In 2020, face masks became virtue signals, surveillance burqas and memento-moris - establishing defensible faciality as the precondition for civic felicity.
In 2020, the austerity architecture of NHS Nightingale decisively flattened the curves of parametricism.
In 2020, super-density was found to be less than the sum of its juliet balconies, shallow pantries and un-sound insulation
In 2020, the city sounded prehistoric and prehistrionic, redounding an old time religion of birdsung matins and NHS vespers.
[23.04.20]
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