© 2011 Josh flower

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On a dirt road, somewhere in the north east, mid autumn, under a canopy of rusty leaves, there’s a man in a dark blue suit.  The suit is a single breasted, ventless, three button suit; Brooks Brothers, probably.  The top button of his oxford shirt is undone and his gunmetal-grey silk necktie hangs loosely. He’s walking with a slow, but measured gait, not confident, but not hesitant, faltering, or tired.  Between two fingers of his left hand dangles an unlit cigarette, most likely his last.  In his right hand, a cellphone, which he checks periodically, still no signal.

Seated at an empty oak boardroom table, in the dim lights of a darkened office building in the late evening, silhouetted against the skyline of some european metropolis, a middle aged woman stares vacantly through the glass.  Her face is half hidden in shadow, her lips slightly parted in a look somewhere between stupefied and pensive. She is completely still, except for her left hand, which is slowly alternating between a palm flattened against the table, and a tightly balled fist, as if searching for some phantom that was once in her grasp.  In the distant darkness, somewhere else in the building, a phone is ringing, it’s not for her.

Looking down from the railing of a water tower, leaning over a dying suburb, eyes following the progress of cars down the nearly vacant main boulevard, an eleven or twelve year old boy sways as if moved by a breeze.  His hands and clothes are smeared with black grime, a mixture of car exhaust, pollen, and months worth of dust, most likely collected as he climbed the near-infinite ladder from the ground.   He’s dangling one foot off the edge, and just barely holding on to the edge of the railing, a precaution in case the wind suddenly whips up.  He’s searching with determination, but everything about him seems detached, unconcerned.  If you weren’t looking at his eyes, you’d think he was perfectly at ease.

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