Ethan Switch - Thursday, 22 May 2003
Geriatrics turning tricks on street corners near tattoo parlours don't often appear in the wrinkle festive glow of the midday sun. As such they would hardly venture out into the world now known to them but as a figment of tumorous brutalities of their former years and memories rapidly dissipating. Wracked with the pains of infirmary and sore joints the sheer simplicity of walking falls well beyond their means. Often reeking of odours mysterious and chemically enhanced the elderly of society watch the watchmen watching them wither away unto death. Relics of the new day, the walking dead exist to remind the more active of the times to come.
Witness to a scene of an impending future: an old lady stands bracing herself with two trolleys, one in each hand. Shaking from the cold morning air the woman holds defiantly onto the handles of each of the carriers of bulk bought consumables. Near inaudible growling whispers in the air on each approaching pedestrian. The door to the funeral parlour in which she is standing outside nearly tackles her.
A couple of blocks away from the commotion this old lady has managed to conjure, a group of homeless men and their dog eye off the register holding the many racked up shopping trolleys.
Back only a few minutes to the original scene and the old lady has disappeared leaving behind only trace amounts of hair and fear. If this was a warning no one was able to decipher the meaning.