Jittering amongst the feeble masses leads one to unwrap his loin cloth, full view and in the public distress of the domain. Walking bare and as rich as hairs on a bowling ball set aflame, Raye Burton dances a tappity tap across the pond.
Parents and children have complained to the local council and police to no avail. His unsightly visage disappearing as numbers gather around to discharge lunches and breakfasts from the imagery.
Saner people discuss the merits and inner workings of possibly sentient machines. Struck by the voice of an apathetic god diving deep into the milieu that is turquoise flavoured beings, it is not without an inherent charm that leaves the man touched in a state of despair.
Left with no clothes of his own, and forced to buy shame from the homeless of the streets, Burton looks upon the saintly lights of explosions to reaffirm his beliefs in the sanctity of religion. This line of light strengthened with distant relatives of the scripture setting ablaze buildings and property not of their own.
More than the riotous acts of terror, they breed, in his mind, a slithering sense of communal joy, As such, the last ever sighting was of Burton stepping up to join in on the festivities.
Written on Thursday, 23 February 2006