“What’s that, Rosie?”
“Karl Marx,” I say. “All that is solid melts into air.”
Ricky pulls back and looks at me. “I don’t know what you mean, Rosie. Have you read Marx?”
“I’ve read most things, Rick. You know that.”
“I wondered why you thought of it now.” He leans forward to his work again. There is a soft click and I feel a surge of blue heat in part of my mind, before it fades, leaving another empty space. There is a lot of emptiness now, blooming inside like ghostly fungus.
You can listen at StarShipSofa No 582 Chris Barnham.