This is my fourth global Keeneetaa symposium and I am tired. Tired of the constant bickering amongst the supposed best and brightest. So called giants from every conceivable field and discipline. Maylor from CERN, Andrews from Stamford, Shyapranapree from MIT, Nobel prize winners one and all. And for what?

By human standards these minds are exceptional. But cosmically they are comically limited. We know that now. The sheer hubris of the Copernican principle and the assumption of its modesty. Humans are special. But special in the way a parent never wants to hear their child described. And this annual gathering, with its formality, its ceremony and its pomposity. It makes these bones ache.

But here I am once again, standing shoulder to shoulder with self proclaimed titans. Unable to resist the invitation to the dance. Like a child drawn to a circus of freaks, I watch through splayed fingers. Ashamed by my fascination, yet thrilled by the absurdity of their being.

“Gremio, you made it old boy.”

Fuck. The last person I wanted to bump into was this clown.

“Maylor you old dog. Travelling light as always.” I say as I count his bags.

Four fucking cases and a giant chest. Louis Vuitton, of course, and his partner with her toy dog in a matching handbag.

”Are you joining us this evening?” Maylor asks.

”No, I need to catch up on some reading before the fun starts.”

”Pity, old boy. Everyone always finds you so entertaining.” Maylor says with a wry smile, before turning and flouncing off in the direction of the elevators, a bellboy in his wake, pushing a golden trolley laden with luggage.

Fuck you.

When I finally reach my room I’m exhausted. I can barely summon the energy to kick off my shoes as I flop onto the bed. It’s too soft. Hotel beds are always too fucking soft. I stare at the ceiling and watch the fan. How fast is it going? How many revolutions per minute? My eyes lose focus. The blur pirouettes to the whirring sound. The room melts, and from uncertainty emerges a dream. A lucid fitful dream. Of men and machines. Melding, morphing, metastasising. What if.

”Room service.” A voice calls.

I open my eyes. Where the fuck am I? I sit up and look at the man hovering next to a trolley by the open door.

”I, I sorry señor. The door, it was open. So I knock, and come in. ok?”

”The door was open?” I ask.

”Yes señor. Open, like this.” The man says, as he moves towards the door, opening it fully.

I get up from the bed, hand the man twenty dollars. He bows slightly, nods his head, thanks me and exits the room, leaving the door ajar.

I close the door, approach the trolley and uncover a large plate. The smell of burnt canola oil, charcoal, something sweet, something sharp and sour. Limp fries, the top of a pale and sparsely seeded sesame bun, hollow to the tap, sat juxtaposed, and crookedly aloof, atop two treacle coloured patties. Between them a barely melted square of white Jack. I lift the top, turning it to find blackened edges ringing a stain of ketchup, and two crinkle cut slivers of anaemic pickle plastering a gaping wound. I look down to see torn lettuce laying defeated, dead beneath the cauterised meat. I lift the patties as one congealed lump, and with an outstretched finger rummage between the limp sheets, finding myself cuticle deep in a bed of reconstituted dough. I eat it ravenously, inhaling it, pushing handfuls into both sides of my mouth. Forcing the barely chewed mass into my oesophagus, feeling my neck bulge as the melee continues. Until I’m done. Energy consumed.

I sleep without incident, shower and choose my outfit carefully. Breakfast will only make me sluggish, so I opt for water with a twist of lemon, the citric acid will help keep me sharp. I join the delegates in the main suite, where Maylor summons me to the stage.

“It’s my pleasure once again to welcome to the stage our esteemed guest, Gremio. Please show them your appreciation.” Maylor says, as he rises from his chair and gestures towards me.

I take a seat beside him and nod my head in acceptance, while ninety three million miles away I am gamma rays bursting from the centre of a star. It is not possible to explain the nature of things to such feeble minds. Humanity will end in 8 minutes.