I don’t know why it’s called a hippy vegan nutbar. The real hippies are long gone – blown out on mescaline and ether or remade as guppies with 4×4 haircuts and protomoto mugshots. I eat what she offers me anyway. Just as long as I can get some goddam coffee. I haven’t slept in 56 hours and my last solid food was a grapefruit from the box of 50 my attorney slung in the back of the mustang.

Twisted metal signs from past regenerations inform me I’m in The Barbican. I unfold the pink folded map. Number 27, where the hell is number 27. Tourists ripple past me looking equally dazed. One of them stops me and asks where the Banksy is. I start sweating profusely. Banksy, banksy. What is a Banksy? The guy gives me an odd look. I hurry off and sling a quick “Ask my attorney” over my shoulder.

Down the ramp and there it is – openbracketotherclosebracketplymouths. A series of thin ply panels cabled tied to the railings. The information board tells me who to thank, as well as telling me The Barbican Landing Stage provides a suitable context. The other boards show other Plymouth’s. All in that former colony of theunitedstatesofamerica. What seems to be a ‘seen and sold’ red dot marks each image. I don’t know why they are there. I try to interpret them as a commentary on colonialism, but fail. Too many questions unasked.

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