Life
A stocky aging man sits dressed in a blue suit slumped in the corner of a room. His head is placed uncomfortably against the cold brick wall. I scan his features for some signs of life playing across his eyes and mouth but find none. An empty mask had slipped revealing his theatrically swollen features. His is a face of a thousand different contorted hues and colours; the plastic rubber red of his swollen curled lip, the immeasurable colour expressed in his protruding right eye, the fat yellow skin of his swollen baby cheek. It seems harder and harder to differentiate the mardi gras theatrics of his actual face with those of the tribal mask that slipped to reveal it. I move my eyes further down the curve of his chest and can see the outline of a tail through his wet blue suited trousers. It's clear that the decaying process has begun, resulting in the wet bib of colourless urine that encircles and stiffens the material about his fat round thighs.