48pp., perfect bound. Second edition of 40
"Perched on the saddle-back of now, Dominic Hale looks both directions into time, whose overlapping zones tumble down his page like sentences, to dance inside the reader’s jet-lagged eyes."
"We start as a clean-up crew, a pilot fish in the folds of Jean Calais, and end before our time, a chorus of synchronised balls on an angler fish. In between, there is Time Zone: radiant waves of the most wilful mondegreen bounce off these four walls to weave an environment thick with nodes and antinodes, no-liners and peerless jokes, ego deaths and the multiple occupancy soul. Let’s go into the other room and make them work."
"Did you see the video of Google’s AI teaching itself to run, without being shown what running looks like? It has arms and legs and it goes ‘forward’ but in a way that no human would: windmilling arms to propel spaghetti legs onwards over stiles and crevasses. Time Zone is like this – a castaway bot trying to develop subjectivity or personality, but without knowing what the ‘normal’ process of acquiring one looks like. Its flat declarations variously alight on exquisitely mortal melancholy, deliver orphaned punch lines, or else flail around in the glitchy staccato of articulation. An organ for filtering environmental glut. Begging infinitude: can you not?"
"Like opening a batch of fortune cookies from the future. Nom nom nom."