Down through the streets he walks. He glances timidly at the severed soul of a nation. “Like robots, profound is the disability of the people to differ”, he thinks. “Their ideas of happiness are so alike: weekend shoppers and workweek debtors; Saturdays trance, Sunday mornings pain than Monday‘s crunch. Confusion, indoctrination and silenced insanity.” 

A passer-byer– his feet shuffling efficiently, his intentions focused, his drug boiled, bubbling and black. The face is unseen as the street poll separating the two creates a visual boundary relative to observer and observed. A momentary shield, hiding forever each persons true identity. Nevertheless, he knows them already. Their current trends, their fashions, their sedatives: his life. The patenting of a man. “Originality,” he thinks, “is a kind of expression designed only for a few.” Looking down, he throws away a charred cigarette, then strikes another match. His gold watch gleaming in the sun reflects a narrow beam of light which adheres to any dull object it‘s directed at, like a compelling prayer exhausted through a charlatans teeth. As his jacket passes 2 and 3, 4 times, he’s reminded of the shame he carries on his back. “Rich and free is the man”, he professes, “who owns nothing, for he’s not to be duped into buying, for lack of patrons love. Enslaved than are the people who think they’re merely clothed”