Hundreds and hundreds of little, balding men in dark blue suits. Cheap suits. So much is clear, even to the unexperienced eye. They’re tailored in such a way that they make even the most anatomically enviable among men look like grey, flabby goo. It’s not just that the suits are not the right size or the right color. It’s the very fabric of them.
I think it is important to stress that none of the men are actually bald. They’re balding.
The small square is overcrowded with them. At eye height all you see is human skin in a sickening shade of grey. Like all the men are slowly morphing into the pavement.
In each corner of the square stands a tree. A young tree, planted no more the half a decade ago. Four fluffy balloons of branch and leave hover above a large pulsating blob of blue confection and grey flesh.
The men are slowly shaking their heads while humming constantly. No one seems to be stopping to breathe. Even though they are packed together, barely leaving room for the fake-leather briefcases in between them, the do not seem to notice one another. They just stand there, shaking, humming, balding.
There’s not a clue about where these men came from. Or what it is they are waiting for. Are they waiting?
They never arrived. You blinked and they were there. It instantly feels like they were always there.
From the point where you are sitting there is a small breeze. Bringing in just enough fresh air for you to breathe comfortably. The wind also carries the sound of an old Bowie song.
“They got a message from the action man:
I’m happy, hope you’re happy too…”
… to be continued, unfortunately…