It poured men that day. From afar, they looked the same, although some had mustaches. Or cigars on their mouths. Or even stained teeth. It is difficult to tell when one is confronted by renderings of so many men with blackened mouths. Falling from the darkest of clouds like no other rain can, they otherwise drifted down slowly. Right side up. Like the Mayan figures with oversized heads and everybody knew where the base should be. Some had their hands inside their pockets. Their trench coats did not even flap. Their bowler hats in place. When they touched down, the women tried hard not to inspect them.
After René Magritte’s “Golconda” (1953)