One is crushed. And then another is crushed. The impact is not great or dramatic

One is crushed. And then another is crushed. The impact is not great or dramatic. Just an absence, a hollowing out of space where something once stood. Bodies do not resist. They fold, compress, flatten, burst in **Bacon-like distortions**, skin succumbs to the pressure, internal matter shifts instantaneously. Liquids splatter outwards in sudden, unpredictable, violent arcs, staining the pavement with streaks of crimson and visceral yellow. **Caravaggio-like warm colours contrast with the dull grey of the ground**. No one stops. The crowd sways unflinchingly, the absence is swallowed up as if it had never been there. Feet walk through the wreckage, leaving footprints that blend into the movement, disappearing under the weight of the next wave of moving bodies. There is no recognition, no acknowledgement. Just **Escher-like recursion of figures** stretching to infinity, patterns repeated, each individual indistinguishable from the whole. What was there is gone. What was crushed is forgotten. The debris is absorbed into the landscape, becomes part of the composition, a latticework whose torn texture blends into the surface, unnoticeable and irrelevant. The air remains thick with heat, breath, movement, but the space it once occupied is already filled with something else. Nothing stops. Nothing changes. There's just the next step.

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