This transmission begins with a warning from a friend in Poland:
“Word to the wise — get some Dr Lugol’s.”
Iodine. Nuclear anxiety. Rumours of escalation.
From there, the signal drifts.
Groundhogs, 1972 — Thank Christ for the Bomb.
Tony McPhee singing about stalemate, deterrence, and the strange logic of survival after Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Thoughts on whether global conflict really erupts, or whether it remains a long, grinding psychological war — skirmishes, infrastructure hits, pressure without release.
Then a slip.
Cash in hand — £500, bought online in 2025 — suddenly feels like 1972, when pound notes still existed. A hired car. The Suffolk coast. Dunwich.
Fish and chips in the café. Formica tables. Tomato sauce or brown.
Sorted.
Dunwich hasn’t really changed.
The village is still small. The café still feels the same.
And the ghosts are still there — the medieval town beneath the sea, the old church bells said to ring on dark, moonless nights.
A transmission caught somewhere between nuclear anxiety, cultural memory, and a quiet nosh by the coast.
Recorded inside the Temporal Zone.
