Yesterday’s man enters the scene, his sleeves rolled up and his eyes focused on tomorrow. He doesn’t see faces, but he sees hearts and minds: he doesn’t hear voices, but he hears the sound of earthquakes days before they arrive. His voice is compiled from political whispers and redacted recordings behind locked doors, and his every gesture is mimicked from hieroglyphs in a desecrated tomb. He has, of course, explosives bound beneath his bulging vest, while his pockets are stuffed with sweets and pencils for children daubed in dust. Trust me, he says, in a voice stolen from a comic book hero, dipping his sticky fingers into someone else’s trust fund. If today looked in the mirror, the face it would see would be yesterday’s man. If today turned away, the quakes would shake it all to nothing.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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