Where did they keep them?

In the corridor-units; in rows upon rows of those thinking prisons, in which you lived inside a television tube. 24Hrs a day subliminal warfare on you as an individual housed in these repeated corridor blocks, completely identical, over-crammed with human flesh of every possible character, and yet all the same.

Underfed. In everything. In sunshine, in life, in company, in comfort, in love above all. No family - nor could there be. Another corridor every night: the walls themselves throbbing blurry screens; sometimes, you made out, a limb, a lip, a tongue, an arse; or something you could attribute to these shapes. Never a tree. Primarily sexual -; abstract; geometric; - to facilitate the forced couplings, only ever random, when, for whatever reasons of production, of labour, of – or this is what he'd always thought.

Maybe just entertainment. Maybe they – they? - who knew who they were now – just wanted to see everybody fucking. Love was denounced; it was actually illegal; Biologically/chemically impossible. In shapes. And pure practicality. All unconscious. The corridors moved. So did you. Every day, so did you. You had a colour. The jackets changed colour. Indicating the next corridor-unit you should seek - to enter for that day's refreshment; sleep, fuck, work.

And then there was the dreaming anyway. 16 hours a day of R.E.M.

Only after did he understand this wasn't in any sense normal. Imposed by chemical means, in the food perhaps; or, really he thought it could just be the images.

He had no knowledge of his parents, obviously, that was insane. Whether he had ever produced children; he, of course, could not know. Undoubtedly had. Countless. Or he'd be in a bucket. As soon as a woman showed any signs of being implicit, she was removed for a procedure the precise finality of which he wasn't obliged to know. Yet there were more people, and he existed, so they weren't murdering everybody. But the women were always pregnant. Or just pregnant, or they had just been. - And/but the population always seemed stable to him. - Sometimes he thought he saw them, the children, in the images that buffeted them continually out the walls. Sometimes he thought that it was their flesh in the food that they consumed.

Sometimes he thought.

This was not something discussed; nothing was discussed - that they were in the food, that they ate them. He knew they weren't wasted. He knew that. This was the discourse: