1:16

You reach for the release on your helmet as if in a dream. Time slows down.

Snick.

There is a brief hiss of released air. You take your helmet off and place it on top of a dusty shelf. You twist the locks on your gloves and remove them too. You rub your face. You breathe in. The air smells good.

No. That’s not quite true. The air smells slightly sour, dusty, decayed, but it smells alive too. Earthy. Organic. You smell something sweet and realise it’s the flowers outside. You breathe in deep. Your lungs fill up with air which has not passed through a thousand other windpipes, been extracted, scrubbed, dragged through filters. You fancy for a moment that you can feel the pollen settling on your lips. That the air is electric with living things.

You are, you realise, going a little bit mad.

It’s not so bad, is it?

You dip your finger in the honey and lift it up to your mouth. Some of it dribbles across your boot and you hunch forwards to catch the rest of it. It is sweet and rich and perfumed. You’re going in for a second taste before you even know what you’re doing. You don’t even think. Does that worry you? It should. Your second, and then your third. You spill more of it. It dribbles down your hand and into the sleeve of your suit. One finger isn’t enough. You cup your hand for more. It’s on your lips and your chin.

Is the buzzing getting louder?