It's as if you are being dragged ‘forward’ into a seething mass. This is what they call progress. Manoeuvred like a puppet into the abyss of assimilation. A hand grips yours tight, like a vice, relentless in its pull. Who is this tugging on you? Perhaps it’s not a who but a what. An idea, a thought, a movement. The faces ahead gaze up adoringly, but you are unable to see at what. The throng pushes in around you, bodies crammed together in a mess of arms and legs. They seem content, yet strangely familiar. And then it hits you; it’s your face. Confusion becomes shock and you turn to go back, you need to go back, but that grip holds you firmly in place. You pull harder, struggling, but it does no good. A low rumble, off in the distance, starts up and you hear it grow louder and louder, like a train picking up speed. It is the voices of those around you, and they chant in unison. You cannot hear the words, but you understand them. An odd sensation starts to take over your body and you feel unexpectedly secure. At peace. Suddenly, a space opens up in the crowd and you see what has caused the commotion. A man stands upon a platform at the front of the crowd, his arms upraised, mouth open. That man. That face. You try not to but your arms seem to work of their own accord, rising up with those of the crowd. Your mouth opens, and you join in the chant. You don’t want to, but you must. This is the struggle with fading idols. [G.M. Giacomelli]