Spettacolo

 

Thin salmon pink streak across the western sky and couple foot above plain white. Unusual. Unworldly. With the F1 landed nothing other than contrails for some preliminary entertainment around by the waterfront. In the air the speeds are far more rocket rapid—Ukraine, Gaza—but for proper spectacle terrestrial measures are needed. For the correspondent human stride the old charts of the progressively erect orang ends in the modern with the seated F1 driver tearing along before the eyes of the audience. Something similar in the case of the heavyweight fight spectacle in London it must have been, where the former champ was battered to the canvas numerous times in five rounds. Human figures battered by life—the war zones, floods, quakes, refugees. Coming out for supper the helpers were escorting the elders battered by their load of years. Some who had the day off were slowly returning to their cloisters, finishing their calls back home. Many employers disallowed phone use within the house. A number with their pitiful charges could manage on the go. Pushing a gramps in his chair, one rested her phone on the handle behind, scrolling as she went. Shrieking bursts echoing over the estate could not be placed at first. Was it coming from behind, or in front? Somewhere the other side of the carpark possibly. On the Void beneath Block 7 a pair of maids sat with the ahma between them. A frail figure like that in her chair seemed incapable of such piercing screams, even these short ones. Approaching closer the associated shaking and quivering of arms & legs became visible. They would have a short respite upstairs while the girls took their charge out for airing.