I mean, if I just stop thinking for a second and let the lack of silence wash over me, in what I imagine would be an orangey wave of dust and sweat, then the noise starts suffocating me from all angles and I hear that thud, thud, thud, thud of bones, skin and plastic colliding, bits left behind by both parties, mingling with each other, computer becoming flesh. Blood as ink. Fingers tapping on keyboards, horns outside beeping, lights flashing on, off, red, green, yellow. Ink.

David Whelan is a fiction writer and journalist based in London, England. He was formally Litro's Reviews Editor and Fleeting Magazine's Interviews Editor. Currently, he writes for Vice's food vertical, Munchies. He is one of Untitled Books's "New Voices" and his fiction has also appeared in 3:AM Magazine, Shortfire Press and Gutter Magazine, among others. He holds an MA in Creative Writing from UEA.