On your return the clouds are greyer
The wispy beard of tired sky
Watch naked cocoons cling distantly
To the hope of returning butterflies
Just imagine how long has gone
How home became the place that used to be
It's only your footprints in the dirt
That stay the same every time

When the bright lights get darker

There is a voice that whispers

From the hollow of your skull

Into the crevasse of your chest

There is a knot that murmurs

It is the nightmare in your head

It is the thought you can't forget

It is the fall that never ends

As the shot that pierced your heart

Watches you scream in ecstasy

After dark we gather
In spaces too small to hold
Prop against walls that cling beside
Like lustful ghosts

These whitewashed panels can't comprehend

The feel of tiny hand in hand

Just stand sentinel in silence

Know that some spectacle must be here

As precious touches melt into crevices

And warm fingers connect

Reminders

Where am I?

Just to check that I haven’t lost my mind completely I force myself to ask the question Who am I? and surprisingly (or not) I am able to answer that perfectly; I’m the same person I’ve always been. I’m twenty-four this March, and I’ve just finished my last few years of school. After a short vacation at my uncle’s house in the city (which I’ve never been to, strangely) I’ll be applying for jobs, taking my final step into the world of adulthood.

In fact I’m hardly the kind of person that would be asking that sort of questions. Generally I keep within my own familiar spaces and to a small circle of friends, so nothing foreign ever really occurs to me. Truth be told my rather routine life is something I enjoy very much – sudden surprises or changes from my regular lifestyle don’t sit well with me at all.

Right now, however, I’m lying in a bed that’s not my own, in a room that I have never seen before. The room is fairly well-lit, although there are no windows of any kind. In fact when I glance around the room I can’t even seem to find an electrical light source, which is strange.

What is stranger, however, are how the walls and door and pieces of furniture are all dotted with yellow squares – at first I thought they were part of the wallpaper but upon closer inspection I see Post-It squares, littering the entire room.

My first thought is I’ve been kidnapped.

My second thought is But how?

All my senses are alert now; as I scramble out of the bed I try to remember how I could have ended up here. At the same time I lift up my shirt and scan my body for any bruises or gashes. On both counts I find nothing.

In fact I’m wearing perfectly ordinary clothes, my own t-shirt and jeans. I jam my hands into my jean pockets, wondering if my phone is inside either of them. Nothing.

And that’s when I see it.

There’s a massive blotch of blood on my jeans, just below the left knee. After I instinctively bend low to sniff it, and then scratch at the area with my nail, I conclude that it’s been there a long time. Then I roll up my jean leg and inspect the area of my calf underneath, but there are no wounds there either.

Nervous now, I stumble over to the door of the room and jerk the knob – it’s locked. A flurry of kicks fails to create any give in the door either.

Where am I?

I slump to the floor, my back sliding against the door as I do so. Just as I reach the ground one of the Post-Its from the door comes unstuck and flutters to the ground in front of me.

I pick it up, and read, in large handwritten block letters, the single word PANIC.

“Shit.”

The word escapes my lips and is followed by a string of more nervy, more explicit curses, directed to no one in particular.

So I’ve been kidnapped by some sort of perverse maniac.

I force myself to look back at the locked door and there’s a second Post-It there, right around where the first one came from. I rise and see, written like the first, the word DON’T in big block letters.

The first realization comes quickly and easily – the words stuck on the door were meant to be read together.

The second realization creeps up on me slowly like a venomous snakebite and is much more difficult for me to comprehend.

I don’t think I’m kidnapped.

The third realization takes nearly a full minute of peeling and pasting both notes on the wood of the door over and over again to fully process, and when it does it hits me hard and fast like a fist in the face – despite the fact that both words were written completely in capital letters I slowly recognize them as my own writing.

I’m sitting back on the ground again and for the umpteenth time I stick my hands into my jean pockets, hoping to find my phone. As I pull my hands out futilely a scrap of folded paper which I’ve somehow missed falls out.

I unfold it; the words are in my own handwriting as well.

DON’T PANIC

If you haven’t recognized the handwriting by now, I’ll have to tell you that it’s me, Past Me, writing to you, Future Me. The reason why this is necessary is because in recent days I (or you, or we) have had such severe short-term amnesia that by now I (or rather, you) should be unable to recall anything that has happened since I began staying at my uncle’s house.

Yes, this is my uncle’s house. And you’re not really kidnapped or locked in – the key to the door is in this room for you to unlock it once you get acquainted with several… pieces of information I have left for you. That’s what the Post-Its are for – I’ve locked myself in until I can resolve my memory problems.

I know this sounds ridiculous, but good luck with our condition, Future Me. May you have more success in overcoming it than I did.

ME.

I reread the note over and over again but still none of it makes any sense. Around this time I stuff the note back into my pocket and try the door again (still locked) and realise that looped loosely around the doorknob is a thin thread, at the end of which is strung a small key.

I swear, mostly out of relief. Then when I unhook the key and it fails to fit into the keyhole of the door, I swear again.

“Damn this shit!”

Just as I’m about to toss the key out of the window (which doesn’t exist) I see on the dresser beside the door another Post-It with the words UNLOCK ME.

This must be the most depraved incarnation of Alice in Wonderland ever.

The dresser drawer unlocks with the key, and there’s another message inside. This time it’s not on a piece of paper, but written into the very wood of the base of the shelf.

The first thing you need to know is that this probably isn’t the first time this has happened. In fact it’s very likely that you’ve had several relapses since the amnesia began.

(at the side of the sentence are two scratches in the wood; after some thought I make another scratch in the wood with the dresser key)

It is absolutely critical that you, the Future Me, follow the following instructions precisely – this would probably be the only way for you to break out of this cycle of relapses and not-remembering. So I need you to trust me completely and believe that these messages were written in a period of lucidity, before the amnesia began.

The actual name for the condition is Dissociative Fugue – somehow as I began staying in my uncle’s house there began to be periods where I would be in a state I can describe only as “there but not there”, with no recollection whatsoever of the events that transpired. These periods occurred almost at random; I might be perfectly fine and all of a sudden I would awaken hours, or even days later, with no idea what happened in between.

I can only guess that something terrible, really awful must have happened during those periods that forced my mind to remove the scenes from my memory.

Soon, my condition worsened, and I began to lose my memory of the lucid periods as well, and was only able to recall them from the notes I left for myself around the house, and even so for much of the time I wandered around being unable to make any sense of what was going on.

The worst part was that somehow in the midst of everything my uncle disappeared, which was impossible because

(here the steady writing ends, and there is a large block of space before the final two words, which are scrawled in what I have to believe is my own writing as well)

oh no

Fairly uneasy, I push the drawer shut and hear a small click; it’s self-locking. I sit on the bed for a moment, and think about my situation. If I’ve relapsed before, there must have been a way I’ve been surviving in this room for so long. And with no windows, how am I breathing?

How am I breathing?

After scanning the walls and ceiling and finding nothing I get on my hands and knees and look around the floor for an air vent or any sort of mechanism that fresh air could be coming from.

And then I find it. There’s an air vent tucked behind the bed, between the legs. As I crawl near it the air around me grows just a little chillier and before I spot it another Post-It square flutters towards me, getting stuck on my nose. The words on it are written in a scrawl as well, in contrast to the previous notes.

NO wAY OUt heRE

“Shit.”

I shut my eyes for a moment, force myself to breathe slowly, force myself to try to remember something, anything about what could have brought me into this room.

And then I actually do remember a flash of something. In my mind’s eye I see myself in the exact same position, crouching by the bed in front of the air vent. Only that the Post-It note is still stuck on the air vent, and, and –

In my memory the room is almost exactly the same, only darker.

It is about this time that I remember being unable to find any sort of source of natural or electrical light in the room, which my mind tells me is impossible. Firstly, because I can see everything perfectly well, and secondly, because

Because I am casting a shadow.

I look up at the ceiling again and realise that there’s a ceiling light right there – how could I not have noticed that before? Then I scan the walls for a light switch and find one just above the dresser, helpfully marked with a Post-It saying LIGHT SWITCH.

When I flick the switch off the entire room goes black and my eyes take a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness. Then after a few moments I realise that the room isn’t completely dark – the wall closest to the bed is swarming with a whole cloud of fireflies. Then when I walk closer I realise that it isn’t fireflies but rather a scattered block of writing, sentences written in a sort of glow-in-the-dark ink that must have been invisible in the light.

There’s no more neat writing here; every single word is written in a painful scrawl that is agonizingly difficult to decipher.

If you manage to read this, it means that there still is some hope left. I’m writing this as a sort of last resort and I hope against all hope that you’ll happen to come across it before you open the door and let yourself out.

I’m writing this while the door is still locked – I haven’t unlocked it yet, although I’ve found the key. Because what you must know, and what you MUST pay attention to, is this: I’m not the same person that wrote all the other notes. Even now I cannot remember writing those words at all, although the handwriting is unmistakeably my own.

The thing I’m afraid of, and the thing I think the Past Me was trying to explain, was that somehow unlocking the door and venturing out of the room causes some sort of relapse and triggers the distortion of my memories.

So this is what I’m going to do – I’m going to unlock the door and venture out with my eyes tightly shut and try to get out of the house as fast as I can. Hopefully that will help me to get out of here safely.

But if you’re reading any of this at all, it also means that I’ve failed. The very fact that you’re looking at these words means that we’re stuck back inside the room again because somehow in the midst of leaving the room something happened that triggered the amnesia all over again.

So this is what I need you to do. Once you unlock the door, SHUT YOUR EYES AND MAKE A RUN FOR IT. No matter what happens, don’t look back until you’re sure you’re safely out.

IF YOU FAIL WE START ALL OVER. Do you understand? The future of everyone, including Past You and Future You and (most importantly) Present You is in your hands.

(the final words are written in much fainter ink)

I’ve painted the door key with the remains of the glow-in-the-dark ink. So even if I’ve forgotten everything, you should still be able to find it somewhere in the room.

The key is nestled near the bottom of what I can only presume is a sort of cupboard or small wardrobe. I make my way back to the light switch and when the light comes back on I walk over to the cupboard to pick up the key and on the cupboard door there’s a Post-It note with the words EATS.

By now this feels like the best thing that’s happened all day.

When I open the cupboard I realise that it isn’t a small wardrobe but a rather large refrigerator, which to my dismay is nearly empty. There’s just the one bagel left inside, which I pick up and place on the bed for later.

Back at the door the key slides in perfectly into the keyhole and I nearly wet my pants with the tension. After unlocking the door I am just about to push it open when I have a brief thought and remove the key, leaving it on the bed beside the bagel.

I can barely turn the knob; my hands are shaking too furiously.

I open the door and walk out. I’m finally out of the room.

I’m finally

finally

I can barely turn the knob; my hands are shaking too furiously.

But even when I steady myself and grasp the knob with both hands, it refuses to turn – the door is locked. I’m locked inside the room.

I’m trapped inside a locked room.

But how? And where?

For a brief moment I’m distracted from my predicament by a strong, unpleasant odour; it’s almost as if something is rotting and decaying right inside the room. Looking for the source of the smell I find a bagel on the unmade bed in the centre of the room – it must have been left there for ages. But beside it I do find a key, which looks like it might fit into the door.

So much for being trapped.

It’s around this point where I realise that I have no idea how I got locked inside the room. I try my hardest to recall the events that could have led up to my being trapped but come up with nothing.

Perhaps unlocking the door would provide me with the answers.

Just as I’m about to put the key into the door and let myself out, I see a yellow square of paper on the ground. At first glance it’s completely blank but when I bend down to touch it my finger gets stuck on the adhesive and I realise that it’s a Post-It note.

I flip it over and there’s writing on the other side. It’s an untidy scrawl but I eventually make out the words NO wAY OUt heRE.

I wonder where that came from.

In any case it hardly matters as I stick the key into the keyhole and unlock the door, pushing it open and now

now

now I wonder who that man is, lying just outside the door. His face is almost completely eaten by flies.

Porridge Man

This

is the house that Jack rents -

Where the dirt on the windows

and the floor of muck

Congeal into the thick mealy oatmeal-cereal in his cup;

Here Jack the porridge-man stirs each day

Looking at (his) spittle on the floor

bubble on sultry days

This

is the rent for Jack's house,

Which is stared at day and night as

Jack

Waits for the monthly delivery

Of the packet that will pay his bills and maybe,

maybe

He would like to visit the doctor for the pain in his feet.

This is the Jack that rents house,

Who, seated, stirs and wonders what manner of madness

Has transformed his once-job and once-children

Into the glass-eyed shiny-teeth man on television

Who says you are what you eat.

Cut

The worst thing about the queue outside a barbershop is the bad hairstyles you see. It’s like normally out in the street everyone’s hair seems normal but once you get to the salon, wham! Out pops Mohawk Guy. Afro Guy. Comb-over guy.

I’ve been sitting outside for twenty minutes, on one of four bar stools probably stolen from the pub down the street. On the left of Comb-over.

It’s funny how no one ever talks to anyone else while they’re waiting to cut their hair. You’d think the bar stools and bad lighting would make the place close enough to a pub to provoke at least some conversation. All that’s missing are the beer bottles.

On the other hand, maybe no one ever talks to anyone around here because there aren’t any women to pick up here. Otherwise the barbershop would be just as noisy and popular on Friday nights as any other nightspot.

A man walks into a barbershop and says –

Comb-over lights a cigarette, the embers glowing in the muskiness of the evening. Maybe talking to him would make the time pass quicker, at least a little. I clear my throat.

“There’s a bar in barber. Have you ever thought of that?”

Comb-over stares.

“And there’s beer in barber too. Bar-beer. Isn’t that funny?”

Now Afro Guy is staring at me too.

“It’s a joke. You know what, forget it.”

I turn and look back into the store – the sight of the barber cutting hair suddenly becomes immensely interesting. Out of the corner of my eye I see Comb-over resume smoking.

“Next!”

I rise and open the door, and the string of bells hanging on the door jingles as it swings. What do you call those things, anyway? Door bells? Door ornaments?

“You’re not the next in the line; I didn’t see you in the queue. That guy came before you. That guy with the bad hair.”

Which guy? They all have bad hair.

“I’ve been here for twenty minutes, man. I was the next in line – I was sitting on the last chair.”

“Can’t help you, sorry. The other guy came first. The guy with the comb-over. Get back into the line.”

The barber motions to Comb-over, who rises and comes in. Maybe that is his real name. I motion towards the barber.

“Hey man, tell him that I came before you.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, dude. I came first and I guess you’ll just have to get back into the line.”

Wind chimes. That’s what you call them, wind chimes. I just got confused when they were hung on the door. Or do you call them something else when they aren’t allowed to hang freely and swing in the wind? Door chimes, maybe.

“Well, this sucks.”

I walk out of the shop and into the evening. Perhaps my exit would have been more dramatic if there was a way I could slam the door, but instead all I hear is the tinkle of bells.

It’s already seven-thirty; the barber closes at eight and knowing my luck if I had gone back in line the place would have closed before it was my turn to get my hair cut. I guess Afro and Comb-over probably needed it more than I did anyway.

Instead of resuming my seat, I turn and walk in the direction of the pub, where I’ll be able to get a real bar beer.

About three seconds into the walk my phone rings. I pull it out and where the number should be displayed it says Unknown. I flip it open.

“Hello?”

The voice is female, but husky and in a low register.

“Hello. Who are you?”

“You called me, who is this?”

“I’m Unknown.”

“That’s funny. Seriously, who is this?”

“No, I mean, I’m unknown to you. You don’t know me.”

“Fair enough. Why are you calling me, anyway?”

“I’m going for a cut.”

“That makes one of us, then. Stupid barber won’t cut my hair after I waited for twenty bloody minutes.”

“No, I mean, I’m going to cut myself. I’m at home.”

“I guess that works too. I just don’t have the right scissors at home.”

“I’m going to cut myself, do you understand? I’m going to slit my wrists. I’m going to kill myself.”

“Wow, chill! You’re seriously going to do that?”

“Try me.”

“I’ve heard that it’s really messy and the blood stains all your floor tiles. Seriously, you really want to do this? Don’t kill yourself.”

Around this point I’ve reached the pub and half-squat, half-sit on the pavement outside.

“Actually, I forgot to ask the most important question. Why are you calling me, anyway? Who are you? Don’t you have friends, family to talk to instead of a complete stranger?”

“I’m Unknown.”

“Seriously, now. Can’t you tell at least tell me who you are?”

“I’m serious. This isn’t a private number; I actually am listed as Unknown on your phone. Take a look at your phone – it doesn’t mask the phone number, which is what would happen if I was using a private number.”

I look at the screen on my phone – it does display the phone number under the contact’s name. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Curiouser and curiouser!”

“What?”

‘Alice in Wonderland. “Curiouser and curiouser!” cried Alice, she was so much surprised –’

“You’re on the phone with a dying girl, and all you can think of is a children’s story? You must be such great fun at parties.”

“Wait – you’re dying already? You’ve cut your wrists?”

“Well, the knife is basically in my hand.”

“Ah. How did your number get in my phone anyway? You said I don’t know you.”

“I know you, that’s what matters.”

“Prove it. What’s my name?”

“Well, I know that you’re squatting on the pavement outside a pub. On your right is a blue convertible with two passengers, a couple.”

I jump. On my right the convertible roars past me, and then disappears into the night.

“The license plate of the car is –”

“All right, this isn’t funny anymore. Where are you? How can you see me? Are you in the blue car?”

“You don’t listen at all, do you? I’ve already told you, I’m at home.”

“There aren’t any apartments around here, how could you possibly be at home and staring at me at the same time?”

“Not important.”

“Okay, where the hell are you? And pardon me for asking again, but who the hell are you?”

“Did you see a guy with bad hair on your way from the barber? Really bad hair, sort of like an afro. But really bad.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you should talk to him. He looks like the sort of guy who knows what’s what. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”

“What will he know? Who you are? How to stop you from killing yourself?”

“Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll hang up right now, and get a drink while you kill yourself.”

I shut the clamshell phone with a sharp clack, dusting my pants off as I rise. Then I look at the phone again.

New message from Unknown.

I open the phone, and the message says Seriously. He knows what’s what.

Shutting the phone again (which was the real reason why I bought a clamshell phone – it’s fun just to open and shut it) I walk into the pub, scanning the place for an empty seat.

Just as I’m about to sit down, something strange in my stomach makes me stand and make for the door.

Oh, come on!

The wind chimes hanging on the door of the pub jingle (seriously, are they everywhere?) as I walk out to look for a man with an afro at eight in the evening.

Ten minutes later

At the barbershop, I look all over for Afro Guy but he’s nowhere to be found. I’m just about to ask the barber when a shaven man walks towards me.

“You need something?”

“Yes, have you seen a guy with – wait, it’s you!”

“What?”

“You just got your hair cut! All of it. It’s you!”

Afro Guy (or maybe I’ll call him No Afro Guy now) stares at me strangely for the second time tonight.

“What do you want?”

“Look, I know this is probably going to weird you out, but –”

“Trust me, talking to you, with your bar and beer jokes? I’ve come pre-weirded already. What’s up?”

“Listen – I’ve just got a phone call from a girl I don’t know. She says she’s about to kill herself.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And she said you could help. She said you’d know what to do and what the hell was going on. Man, I don’t know the half of it myself; I’ve no idea who she is, even!”

“This girl, she told you to look for me?”

“Well, not exactly. She said to look for the guy with an afro. That was pretty much it.”

“God!”

No Afro Guy and I look at each other, both wondering who has had a stranger evening.

“Listen, man, I really need you to help me out here. Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“Well, this girl.”

“Yeah.”

“She called you; you’ve still got her number?”

“I guess.”

“You tried calling back?”

“Of course I’ve tried. No connection. Phone’s off.”

“Let me see the number.”

I pass my phone over to Noafro, who notes the number and punches it into his own phone.

“Ah.”

“Great! You know who she is?”

Noafro shows me the screen of his phone, lit up with the digits he has just entered and the single word Jamie.

“Jamie! Is this a friend of yours?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I don’t know any Jamies.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. How could that be possible if you’ve got her number and name stored in your phone?”

“God, I don’t know, all right? How could it be possible that a girl you’ve never met calls you to tell you that she’s going to kill herself and asks you to look for me, a guy you’ve never met? God!”

My shoes scratch on the gravel on the ground as I grind my foot back and forth. I check my watch: eight-thirty. Now it’s so dark outside that the light from the barber’s pole makes my white sneakers seem to glow a grisly red.

Noafro coughs.

“Well, do you have any plans?”

“Not really, I’m kind of exhausted. You?”

“Do you like ice cream?”

At the pub

As it turns out, I do enjoy the ice cream more than the beer I would have bought instead. Or perhaps I should have had a combination of the two. Who would have thought that they would sell such tasty ice cream here? Or is that what they originally meant by the phrase ice cream bar­­?

The rivulets of melting ice cream trickle down my bowl, streams of pink and white and brown amalgamating and swirling in pools. Amidst the noisy chatter and music I hear Noafro’s spoon clink against his glass bowl, now empty.

“I’ve been thinking – it’s impossible for this Jamie’s name to have been in my phone without me knowing. It’s a rather new phone too – I just got it last week and if I had met a Jamie within the week, well, I’d know.”

“Seriously? You, too?”

“What?”

“My phone. I got it last week, too. It’s basically brand new.”

“Well, aren’t we in a right mess!”

There is silence for a few moments as I resume eating my ice cream. Noafro takes a pack out from his back pocket and lights up, the clouds blowing over his empty bowl. When he speaks again, it’s with the cigarette clenched at the left of his mouth, between his teeth.

“But the ice-cream is good, right?”

“Yeah, it’s great. Listen, I think I’m done with this stuff, after I’m done with my ice cream I’ll just grab a beer and head home, maybe fix some supper.”

“I guess.”

Just then my phone beeps, revolving in circles atop our table as it vibrates in tandem with the beeping.

New message from Unknown.

“Guess who?” My voice comes out shakier than I intend.

“God!”

“Should I read it?”

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

Instead of reading the message, I flip the phone open and hit redial just before it reaches my ear. No dialing tone.

“The bloody phone’s turned off again! It’s almost as if she turned it on just to send the stupid message, and –”

“Well, aren’t you going to read the message?”

It’s a voice message. The same husky, female voice comes on and says After this I shut my phone. Just the six words, softly. Then nothing.

I groan.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Noafro pulls the remains of the cigarette out of his mouth, and dunks it into his bowl.

“Relax, man! You’re all tensed up.”

“Fine. Do you have any ideas?”

“She completed your sentence.”

“What?”

“You were saying. She turned it on just to send the message… and after this I shut my phone.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Think about it. She completed a sentence just after you spoke. She knew you were waiting in line at the barber’s for a haircut. She knew I was having a haircut, goddamn it! She told you to look for a guy with an afro. Me.”

By now the remains of my ice cream have congealed into sticky, semi-solid lumps. Noafro continues speaking.

“She knew when a single car was passing. She… well, can’t you put the pieces together?”

I drop my phone, and it clatters on the bar’s hardwood floors.

The bells on the door jingle again as I hurry out of the pub, half-pulling, half-dragging Noafro behind me.

“If she isn’t down here, there’s only one other place we could possibly find her. There’s a sort of apartment upstairs, I’ve been there before. It’s where the pub owners store their drink crates and spare furniture.”

We run up a flight of external stairs in the near-darkness of the night. Somewhere beneath me I hear a customer complaining that the bar’s Happy Hour has just ended.

“The door’s right here!”

I twist the doorknob with my hand and swing the door open.

“Seriously, bells here too?”

The body’s already slumped face-down on the floor in a massive pool of blood. The knife, covered in red, sits on a nearby crate.

Noafro bends low and reaches out gingerly, touching her bare arm. Almost immediately his arm snaps back, like he’s been scalded.

“Good god. She’s cold as ice!”

He gently flips the body over, rummaging through her jean pockets. Pulls out a wallet and a phone. Thumbs through the wallet, finds her identity card.

I slowly crouch on the floor beside the body, reaching for the other arm. It’s frigid and completely stiff; she’s been dead for hours.

Behind me the bells on the door keep jingling, the only sounds in the otherwise vaporous silence.

This morning Iran voiced its objections towards the logo for the 2012 Olympics, arguing that it was racist because of its resemblance to the word Zion (which, surprisingly, doesn't refer to the happy city Neo and friends live in in The Matrix).

A case of national/religious trolling? Possibly, considering the fact that it has been four years since the logo was launched and Iran has never had anything to say about it.

But who cares about the 2012 Olympics anyway when we'll all probably be dead before then? In that case possibly it's London that's trolling the world instead, knowing that there's hardly any need at all to make preparations for the event.

Here's the final, incredible secret: if you look at the 2012 logo with one eye closed and squint a bit it spells "LOLZ".