I walk. I see a telephone box, I enter and call 999:
“Which service do you need?”
“Everything is ok, everything is normal.”
“This line is for emergencies only Sir.”
“This area is normal. This world is safe.”
Phone by phone, area by area, I, a Knight of National Security, relay the normality of the situation to those policing the world with me.
Night falls. I live eternally but feel infinitely weary; I must find rest.
There is no rest. This is Paradise and yet there was no rest. I march on. I turn a corner and see by dim street lighting a ramshackle old building. Here, then, is my resting place. I push what is left of the door and go in. Rodents rustle in the rubbish on the floor and are silent.
I lie down. Sleep must come… I deserve rest. I toss and turn; comfort is absent, I realise that sleep after all is not going to be mine.
I have received the gift of eternal life, am I not in Paradise? But in Paradise, surely, there is rest, comfort, bliss. What other truth could be?