The flat man’s soliloquy hacks into silence, like the first train down a new rail. See those workers, mostly underpaid, sweating at the side of the cutting, nursing broken bodies and shading their eyes from the merciless Sun; and just look at that gaggle of fat controllers, with their shiny suits and faces, clapping pudgy hands and chomping on chunky cigars. And here comes the boy from the future, welding steel to sky in an arc which curves like a rainbow across every great divide. This, says the flat man, sweeping his arm like the implacable hand of a station clock, as if to satisfy some fundamental need that resides in the heart of every one of us from the very point of conception. In the silence, that follows, nobody important dies, even when engines fall from the massing clouds.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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