It is 1984. A message from London.

People shuffling in the street, afraid to look others in the eye, get close, and be accused.

Fear as a silent ghost hovering above the city, watching us, like drones.

The panic in the eye of the mother as her little toddler cycles by an older woman on the street, too close.

The glee of the neighbourhood bully as she shouts at a couple embracing in the park, taking pictures with her phone.

The stern voice of the expert on the news who has discovered yet 5 more reason for why he was right last week.

The bombast of the politician who sheepishly looks through our screens, almost apologetic at introducing more restrictions and for what his experts are urging. Fines. GPS tracking. A gulag for the unwilling.

The desperation of the black teenager shouting abuse at himself on the street, echoing the words shouted at him at home where they are cooped up with 10 in a small apartment.

The shame in the eyes of the men who have no jobs and little savings.

The gratitude in the eye of the middle aged woman as someone returns her smile on the street, acknowledging she exists.

A beautiful day in which the first stirrings of spring can be seen: cherry blossoms.

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