marking time, eyes glazed, pupils constricted to the head of a pin from facing the blue white sterile light for too long a zombie tribe numbering in the millions if not more waits.
this throng, agitated in a subdued anesthetized way, crowns one of its own a clown of sorts knowing little of the past less of the present and practically nothing of the future. “why not? it could be worse.”
in a strange unreality a vaudeville show becomes its own rehearsal, a dreamish state from which only an atomic flash can awaken a person.