It was to be my life’s work, building that time-machine. So I found myself at rather a loose end after finishing it in two years. I guess mostly now I ride the bus. Waiting to see you.
TV shows always depict a time-machine as something that could fit into your pocket. That’s ridiculous. Mine takes up most of the garage. The generators alone weigh a couple of tonnes. What I can do, however, is trigger it with my mobile phone. After all, it doesn’t matter where you are when time stops. Time stops everywhere. The gyroscope on my belt keeps me moving. I suppose if it failed time would stop forever. But the universe would never know.
The main problem with this setup is that I have to walk home to start time again. The phone network stops working. Internal combustion engines won’t combust. Bikes, I can force into motion, but I don’t like stealing. So I do a lot of walking, usually from your bus stop.
The world is a strange place when you’re the only thing moving through it. The air provides a certain resistance — it is slow to move aside. Rain is indescribably beautiful but quite impassable. People’s eyes glimmer with the agitation of their restrained souls, utterly unlike any photograph. Your skin is smooth and firm, like hardened candle wax.