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A Shopping Centre

For some reason best forgotten and laid to rest in the mists of time I am walking towards a large glass shopping centre, the Oracle perhaps. I am in a long chain of people and we are walking two by two. I have the vague suspicion my partner on this excursion is an old friend. We walk in silence. I slowly become aware that all those we pass are also old friends from an era long past. I try vainly to remember names but they escape me. I consider asking my partner though I know that would reveal to him my memory loss and I dare not open myself to such embarrassment. I look around nervously.

I suffer a shock as we approach the translucent mass when I spot a friend with whom I used to make potions from our parents aftershave and perfume. The potions would then be poured onto the hapless creatures unlucky enough to be caught in our evil games. Before I have time to further contemplate my misspent and depraved youth, a flash of inspiration reveals the identity of my partner, an old teacher. He strikes up a conversation and soon we are chatting about how my life has changed and how I should approach my life in the future.

All the time the shopping centre is looming nearer.

The butterfly killing friend suddenly darts off into the building and I have the urge to pursue, specifically to discover whether he too has moved on from that grisly period. As I enter through the spinning doors I am struck by its majesty, with glass walls, floors and ceilings stretching for miles, politely interrupted every few feet by a small tropical jungle in a plant pot. I see my fleeting friend dash up the escalators to what I assume to be a cinema and so I follow, hardly stopping an instant to explain to the ticket attendant my reason for skipping his well-ordered queue.

Upon reaching the top floor of the cinema I begin a merry chase around and around the circular foyer pausing only to buy popcorn from a seller of an uncanny resemblance to that of Joshua Jackson. Finally my friend sidesteps into an elevator and without thinking I dive in just as the doors slide shut. Immediately I regret such a rash course of action.

I am not sure how I die. Perhaps the elevator cable snaps and we fall back down to the bottom floor breathing our last under the disapproving gaze of the ticket queue or perhaps I am shot, point blank, by an old friend.



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