Tomorrow is Postponed
by Martin Higgins, 1999
Graham Billow’s spine erected itself reflexively at the sound of the morning news glooping itself across his wall screen. Under the gaze of the “all-seeing-eye” camera in a high corner of the room, he robotically walked himself to his kitchenette. Without movement or noise, the eye efficiently soaked up the scene, perpetually uploading to the building’s memory for security and insurance purposes. It was always a comfort, drifting off to sleep, but could sometimes feel an intrusion on waking up. And today was one of those days.