Phoning

There are no more telephone booths, not the old type - the glass coffins. The Atalanta hub is rocking, planes and people buzzing in and out of an anthill nexus of distracted minds. Calling London, a city that has red telephone boxes, concrete-set booths that all ring at once. Wrong numbers are seeking answers. There is a cacophony in the pressed ears of puzzlement. The airport begins to spin around, faster and faster, a shaky orbit encircling speaking lips. Dialing fingers sweat, are too thick for changing conversations. Talking heads are searching for one direct call, one line in an ethereal ball of string. Red boxes are bellowing now, every voice is angry, nearby glass booths are trembling with a frustrated rage. All these images are an allegory for the deaf and dumb days of yore, a distant time locked in its own transparent sarcophagus - drowned-out mouths, even now fitfully trying to connect.