A person with pimples sat on a bench spitting into a beaker. In the park, in the park at dusk. I stood on the lawn and shouted at him through a loudhailer, and birds fled their perches on branches of trees in the park at dusk. The dog that belonged to the person with pimples was pissing against a tree. I shouted at the dog. One bird stayed on its perch on a branch. It was looking straight at me. The bird was looking straight at me. I dropped the loudhailer and turned and walked off the lawn on to a path in the park at dusk. A red loudhailer on a green lawn, and a person with pimples spitting into a beaker and a pissing dog and a bird on a branch. I turned my back on them and walked away along the path in the park and somewhere in the distance I heard bells clanging, dusk bells clanging, and I headed towards them, towards the bells clanging, out through the gates of the park and across the railway bridge and past the allotments and the clanging bells grew louder and night fell on my town. The blanket of night. It muffles our rage. The bells stop clanging. Muffled, muffled.