“WE LIVE in a decadent age, Mr. Dylan,” the man-with-no-hands smiled like a shark. His eyes did not focus on Dylan or the child who sat to the other side of the room playing an electric keyboard. His eyes panned across the Penny Black room, the television, the print painting of the Hay Wain, the detective. A child aged ten or eleven, played Bach on an electric keyboard looked at Joe once and smiled before returning to the keys. He recognized her from somewhere, one of the street kids perhaps. She had that hard lived in look about her. She had the look of a child who had been robbed of a childhood. A child forced to make adult decision as soon as she could walk and talk.
The man-with-no-hands continued: “An age where one feels the greatest love with a stranger. That first bloom of passion one feels before one knows their name, their age? Do you understand? I mean who wants to lay familiar? I for one do not want to lay a familiar person. It would be like sexual intercourse with my mother, don’t you think?
“I’ve never met your mother.” Dylan shrugged.
These people disgusted him.
A VDO of Newman shot by A. McLeaod and sounds by Keith Nolan can be seen HERE