A man pushes through the crowd as if it was water with a salinity of more than 35%. Barring algae, nothing’s going to live in there, but this man – with his wide lapels and grey fedora, his chapped lips and amphetamine eyes – has time to kill and fish to fry: he’s got flesh to strip from cold muscles and words to set in order before the situation becomes untenable. His mind’s on critical mass and herd immunity; it’s on a roadmap tattooed on pigskin; it’s on satori, instant gratification and instant coffee; it’s on hold with a synthetic melody seeping into every widening crack. A man pushes himself to the limit and then lets the invisible hand on his shoulder do the rest. He is walking on water, or sunshine, or gilded splinters; he is taking advantage of prevailing circumstances and taking issue with the ways in which his special interests are reported in mainstream media; he is reaching for the detonator at his waist, considering the plosive pleasure in pretty please, and chiding himself for never having firmed up that flabby belly. A man pushes his interpretation of events just a little too far, then pushes the button that thins the crowd to a watercolour wash, or to the whisper of air across razorblades.
Picture Nick Victor