Under her varnished pavillion, she is frozen, forever gazing westward.
A wooden robot made of filligreed ramen lattice interlocked in feudal fashion to turn back the atomic clock stands watch. Ancient rusted cogs chugging incrementally forward, slowly rotate the axis of a platformed pagoda only two stories tall. The noise it makes deafens. But still the monks gather, praying to the sleek slabs of concrete faux finished to resemble shiny jade and studded along its ribbed walls.
Eyes automatically avert as the Medusa walks by lest be blinded its mirrored sunglasses. The burning man merely burns in retaliation as an abstract elephant, its trunk an ascending escalator, offers solace while children play about, oblivious.
And he wonders when the next time will be.