I see Christ’s face dissolving in a bath of aqua regia. The gold foams and leaks into the clear acid and the face of the son of God is warped into something blunt and indistinct. The men are clearing out this Abbey. All its valuable contents are transferred to the consortium, while anything they can’t take is dissolved, raising the value of what remains. The monks are bundled into black vans, sent off to be reintegrated into the populace. At least that's the idea. They look fervent. Frenzied. One screams something in Latin as the doors close. I turn a look back at the site. An object taller than the Abbey, black and unnaturally smooth, in the shape of a crucifix casts a long shadow. I’d have my mind warped too, if I lived below that. Below the ranger of our hearing, it emits a low hum. Our engineers set to dismantling it. One of thousands, but one less in the world.
Paddy Dobson
8th April 2021