Igor Clark

While I sat, glued to my screen, gawping at the words and images in front of me, a kind person of existing acquaintance came up to me and asked me a question. The question regarded whether I was keen to imbibe any fluids. I pondered momentarily, as though this matter of slight import bore any real meaning, as though anything we ever do makes any real impact on the yawning chasm of existence we believe stems or at least focuses from the locus of our existence, and then said "YES!". I said this because, indeed, I did want to drink some tea. None of your builder's tea, none of your tannin-rich splosh, but something clear and refreshing; something purifying, some essence of clarity that might engender feelings of rejuvenation and thus participate in a cleansing of the doors of my perception. Peppermint is what came back in the mug, and I left the dregs, that element of the experience which was neither clear nor refreshing, so that I may photograph it stationed as it was at the bottom of the cup, symbolising the end, the leftovers, the drizzles that no-one wants, and offer it up as such so that I may fill the world with such a piece of technological beauty. Yes, yes; that was my intention; that is my achievement, my contribution, my satisfaction.