The mumbling crowd dances. The discord of their individual jerkings blurs into one motion, the drunken choreography of a siren (her rose-brown flesh is pimpled by greasy smoke). Their hollow roar
seems to sing: the end is near!
Carlos withdraws from the stage, a lattice of naked fingers drawn before
his head. He speaks through the remaining hand, a giant to his receding body.
What we see and hear of him are at once faraway and close,
as the words of a carnival man fumbling with tangled marionettes resonate ominously but are impotent.
The forgetful ones start to fidget.
He continues to disappear until all that is left are the paintings. They have become his hands. They are flesh he has abandoned, gifts that ensnare and deceive us, but tell his story true.
These naked displays do not fail to arouse the crowded eyes, who approach
the images at this very moment, even as the conclusion, the imminent embrace, is staged before them. One draws near the other, exposed flesh towards nameless instruments.
The scene can only be completed when both are ruined.