Land of hope and no one, all tomorrows came today. Near the park bench where old Billy used to pass, his time was the last one of the no hopes, who is so called society to judge him. His girlfriend died last year and his ears couldn’t afford emotional music.
So sat upon what was left of municipal benches, waiting cold, watching, no home, no friends, too far out even for leftovers. Soon the low droning’s sound of the British right wing junta vans could be heard drawing ever closer, by now Billy was stiffening, with growing frost that covered all of him . The gun metal grey government armoured car ground to a halt. He is now freezing. One of the crew shouted “get him to basement 59 we’ve nearly cleared them all now of every man jack we will get our bonus for clear up, but I don’t think there’s any porridge left for this one.” Said Mick, loyal soldier, of the Junta. This is Britain, the year is 2035.