Paranoia ripples down and through the queue of painted faces. Each identical to its neighbour, right down to the etched tell-tale lines of pain. No-one is any different and the tears in the shabby coats make a sea of toothless, silent smiles.
Here is our glorious portrait of a bright technological era but captured only in black and greys, and varnished in the rain.
Is this how it was meant to be? The factories throbbing and the machines turning 24 hours a day, while an army of depressed youth stand at the gates still believing life has more to offer than death. The world metropolis with its few shrinking parks where only the madmen roam. Catching their food before it can run and hide in the processed safety of mother-can.
There's a sale sticker on everything from sex to religion, affordable sheet anchors for the neurotic, nuclear family. Everyone trying to stay upright on that spinning roundabout in its descending spiral of children's graves decorated with garbage. There is no acknowledgement of any flaw in that vain, primitive thought that motivates the mundane moron inside man.
Picture: Sheadquarters
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