These are our last untroubled days. Our last hours as free philosophers. Our last months!
These are the balmy days before the storm. Our last spring! To be followed by our last summer! And then the most poignant end of summer. It’ll be an Indian summer, probably … When things really begin …
The screws aren’t being turned yet. They’re not actually torturing us. They’re not actually doing anything. They’re trusting us to do it for them. Which is kinda worse. Because they know we will. They know the kind of cowards we are.
They want plans. Proposals. Concrete things. New modules. Which we’re going to provide them with.
Speak for yourself. I can’t be fucking bothered.
Listen to you, Miss Bravado! So daring!
We’ve got to get serious. Get business-y. We’ve got to frame it all in a way they get. That makes sense to them. Take dictation!
You take dictation.
I have an action point. Minutes are for pussies. It’s all about action points now.
Where did you learn that from – your pal, Alan? Who you’re cuckolding.
Fiver – forget taking minutes! Do you have any visions, by the way? We could do with a vision. Something positive this time. Something summery.
Fiver, shaking his head.
Helmut, what’s your contribution? No contribution. Nada. You can’t still be following your vow of silence.
We’ve got to have a Plan – a larger Plan, I mean. About how we survive. About how we strike back. The Resistance! Come on, people!
The Postgraduates. They’ll know what to do. Not our postgraduates, idiot. The ones who went underground.
Work in Progress 