The Fool Machine Collective (on a fucked up island)
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Tame Death
I have a darkly lit image of a man in a bed surrounded by shadowy figures. Slowly each figure fades away pulling parts of the bed away, or they are attached to their own clothes. The stripping away leaves the man on a metal frame with no support for his back. As he begins to fall through the metal grid the lights brighten, he falls to the ground as the lights become blinding. He is handed a mop, but there is no water and no dirt. He turns to the audience and says "Hello?" His voice echoes as the lights fade.