The flat man wishes to assure us that he cares. He tells us that, of course, an undefined we care, but that it’s important to recognise that he, in particular, cares just that little bit more. I suspect we might be The Executive, as they slip on their smart hoods and oil their carbines for the executions, but there’s the suggestion of a wider sphere, all caring, though not quite as much as the flat man, who is now creasing his brow to the perfect degree, signalling a depth of care which the hoi polloi could never hope to fully comprehend, while displaying a strength of character which will never permit a tear to fall from his sparkling eyes. His jaw remains firm as he reiterates that he really, really cares, that second really shifting mere emotion to the metaphysical, pressing at the portals of the mystical. And as the cord tightens around my wrists, the bag is slung over my head, and I hear the washing of flat hands, it’s reassuring to know just how much the flat man cares.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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