Contemplary

They stretched out on the openwork mosaic chairs in front of the antique shop, like a wild rose on a strange tree or on a rusty fence nearby. They smoke cigarettes. They think, travel, traverse. But they never leave their chairs. They dream of visiting Queen St. Brew House on Saturday to join the crowd and be someone. But they are never among the other regulars roaring like lions, unleashing their instincts and making a difference only for themselves.

The older generation is waiting. For the sun, for the rain, for the wind. Every day, every hour, every minute. They count down with the great help of the Grand Clock on the Grand Theatre. Although it's no longer a theatre. It's a cheap chip shop where their grandchildren decide to shorten their lives by a year or two for a few pounds. When they wake up from this modern-day dream with a beer in their hand, their grandfathers will be gone and there will be no one to tell them how to survive in this day and age.

The concept of modernity strictly doesn’t exist. There is only the reproductive reality of Warhol's Campbell's Soup Cans, where "contemporary" brutally turned into a "copy" of what has already been created. There are no originals and the former ones have nothing to do. They sit, stare, sleep. There is no end, so this process continues until death. The memory hangs in the corner of the mouth like a forgotten cigarette. Obsolete demand.