A slow man, melting, sitting on the bench of a lonesome park. The meaning of time passes by while birds fly into the grey sky.
Buildings lack the significance that they were once built upon.
People flow on the streets like streams of water underneath the concrete, streams that can only rise to the surface when needed. As for the man, the bench was fine. Nothing was ever asked of him. Soon his liquid self would succumb to gravity; he won’t join in the agitated-city-life anymore. Probably the snowman’s shortcomings are not limited to the state of his form…
We might be short-sighted, but he was never a man at all.