There’s a piss-white statue of a crying boy kneeling at the foot of something, but it isn’t entirely clear what, because that detail was omitted from the sculpture. Apparently this is only an integral part of a much larger display.

It sits to the left of the walkway on a dirt lot by the railroad track, put there for some reason, or for no reason at all. Maybe it fell out of the back of a truck. Maybe a motorist stopped, pulled it from the road and placed it with care to safety, hoping that its rightful owner will backtrack and reclaim it. It looks durable, but it certainly isn’t capable of bouncing. You can tell just by looking at it. What is it? Cement? Plaster? Clay?

Plaster. You know this now because you’ve kicked it. You kicked hard, separating its head from its body and sending it right back into the street. You’re furious. You want the world to know it. You want your audience to feel your anger, to agree with it, or to passionately disagree with it. You want them to react, to return it, to send the poor boy’s head right back in your direction. You’re looking for a reason to pick it up and hurl it into the windshield of any one of these cars. You’re fishing for a fight, but nobody cares. You’re their clown. You amuse them with your fury. You’re behaving like a child. Even you know that much. All you need to complete the look is a sign strapped to your torso with apocalyptic warnings scrawled across it in bold, hand-painted letters. 

Not a bad idea, actually. Maybe you’ll go make one right now.