A man's body

It was a busy day.

Midday.

The sun was high and hidden between clouds.

Men in suits dressed the streets carrying their cases filled with papers and charts and contracts.

Then Bum.

He smashed the wall of the stairs; he came rushing from his apartment on the 5^th floor.

He didn’t scream, he just felt he hit on the wall and stopped for a second to recover. Then he kept on running.

He ran out of the lobby to the streets, now screaming for help.

The men in suits only diverted their eyes and made room for the mad man to keep running, screaming his lungs out for help.

He was dressed in a sleeping robe, loose, tied on his waist, so with every step he took everyone could see his genitals and his hairy legs, his balls and penis bounce, like dead skin hanging.

He screamed and screamed, words without meaning for those who heard the sounds of despair.

He was dying, he felt. People only saw a crazy man without his medication.

So he kept on running and screaming, his balls bouncing, his hairy legs trying to take another step.

And the people in suits only made room for him, too busy with their own lives.

The man in loose robes eventually slowed down, his throat sore and dry, his muscles itched in exhaustion.

People did not mind him.

And he fell to the floor. Dead.

No more words from that empty mouth, that distressed mind.

He fell to the floor and people in suits surrounded his corpse. They stood there in awe, only death could disturb their routine.

A man threw his hand over another to keep them from getting closer.

A silhouette raised from the corpse.

Slowly a dark figure of a female body raised from the man’s body.

Her soul was free from his old body.

The silhouette though faceless still conserved the distress from her body in her shape; a tragic pose as her ethereal existence dissolved.

- Inspired in a Picasso sketch: “Estudios para evocación” 

Written 12-03-17