• He sits and watches the societal mannequins, all dressed in assorted, analogous outfits. They walk and talk one in the same. He ponders what factory they were made in. Beneath there plastic appearance is there a soul? Do the paler ones have a brain? Their words to his ears are disquieting. Distressed he looks to the older additions, worn from years of display. His ears ring at their discourse, even age hasn't changed, whatever it is that ticks beneath there blank faces. They state individuality yet there is none. More horrifying are the rogue mannequins that flock to the back, and dress in macabre black garments. Their words claim they do not conform, yet their numbers build. Their non-conformity is that of the others, but worse. They seem to have forgotten the meaning of the word. He wonders about his own existence. Surely, he is not a mannequin as the others, he states repeatedly to himself. With such original thought it can't be so, he proudly states. No he is not one of them, those faceless demons that call them selves the living. Blood must surely course through his veins, surly he lives. He returns home to ponder the day and his original thought. He finds his feet to ache from his explorations. Gradually he takes his worn shoes off. No! he says, I am not a horrid being as them! His socks soon follow suit with his shoes. Since his feet can now breathe from the prison of the shoe, he massages them as always. How peculiar he states, a callus. This surely justifies my eccentricity he gladly esteems. The callus was strange to him. It was ridged yet, perfectly aligned. Must be from those dreadful shoes he reassures himself. He distorts himself for a closer look. Is his vision failing him he thinks, he could swear it was some form of type. He closes in for a final look distorting himself more so, than ever. He laughs at the sight. Imagine that he says, it says "made in china", must be those shoes he chuckles. How else would that have gotten there?