Floccinaucinihilipilification

The Man With A Sun As His Head

Handfuls of melted benches dry around the park. The people are displeased. All fingers easily point at the cause, with childish spirits and with their eyes closed: the man with a sun as his head.

He stopped picking which benches to sit on. He stopped looking around as much. The man sits as the bench reaches new highs with its temperature, and he emptily stares down at his favorite mirror.

He stopped admiring the green around. He stopped seeing the value in receiving. The man slouches as the park cleanses of its breathing flesh. He doesn't wear clothes, as all end in a pile mixed with cigarette ash lost in ashtrays. He doesn't lie when he sleeps, as his skin eternally sizzles with red, orange, and scars. His head keeps shining, with only one thing wishing for its shadow: his long abandoned imaginary friends.

He stopped planning which muscles to use. He stopped the temperature at uncomforting 420°C. Tiny, quiet, yet gorgeous bird chirps echo in the man's vicinity. His spine cracks, the slouch turns horizontal, as he raises his torch to try and admire the tiny bird in proximity. The bird has a family. In a few unnoticeable seconds, dirty molecules steal the bird's place and whirl away, far, far from the man. The equation chants for one less feather; the family migrates as a hole appears in their formation.

He stopped grieving his own promises. He stopped counting the blood drops. The man sits, his body now coppery, as the day-night cycle goes rouge. He has his own eternal day, so the man doesn't notice. The man loves birds, yet he's considering stopping.

He stopped his own routine. He stopped noticing as much. Seasons quickly take their place; all become one. The man sits, his body now half tinned, half coppery, as the seasons warp time incomprehensibly. A small, gray, dusty cloud appears above the man's torch; it's weeping. The man sees a small snow pile, abandoned in the park's path. No matter how long the man's heat traverses through the snow's freeze, it remains intact. The man hears the cloud's sobbing mind. "My purpose isn't supposed to be cold on touch. The green dies as I continue to weep." The man's intrigued, raising his torch to burn through the cloud's droplets. "I have been mutated. I have been marked by nature's mockery." The cloud's pity will end with time, it seems. The man keeps sitting, shifts his focus on the snow, and he keeps staring.

He stopped hoping for change. He stopped listening to begging. The man's heat waves are persistent, the snow's existence stays solid, and the cloud's tears are everlasting. The man's pose begins to harden. The man's now impatient, clueless, as to why the snow's refusing to decay. It's what he's good at: blazing. The man's now irritated, furious, as to why the cloud's stubbornness. "How did you create such nature's flaw?" the man's torch burns through the cloud's gasses. "Mistakes are made, intentional or not. I wish to return to my duties," the cloud replies sobbingly. The man sees no sympathy, oblivious to his hypocrisy. "Nature's mockery is remorseless, I've noticed. The snow has a life on its own, so leave it," the man's trying desperately to get the cloud to leave. "If you inherit my scar, so be it. I wish to return to my duties," the cloud's last teardrops drop, and it sets on its way. The man's relieved of the cloud's absence and throws his attention back on the snow. Yet, it's gone. It's tearing through the park's path following the direction of the cloud, confirming their dependent co-existence. The bench keeps melting, and the man keeps mummifying.

He stopped keeping track. He stopped expressing as much. The man slouches as the park cleanses of its breathing flesh. The light keeps shining, but now there's no one to make shadows for.

He stopped selective thinking. He stopped focusing on too much. The man keeps motionless, waiting for nothing. He has little reason to stay, but something's keeping him on this bench. People approach him with smooth, cared-for skin. People withdraw with coal, blending in shadows, being able to feed an oven for weeks.