Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had a man in a headlock. The man had no defining features except that he was being held in a head-lock by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, in a run-down car-park. I couldn’t tell to what shop the car-park belonged, as I couldn’t see more that a metre in front of me; in every direction, the view was obscured by tens of thousands of grey-haired, heavy-jowled puppets, crowding in to watch the fight. It wasn’t much of a fight; Wolfgang Amadeus had the upper hand, arm, and shoulder. I couldn’t back away from the fight as the puppets were pressing in for a better view. I couldn’t remember how I had got there, at the very front of the circular clearing in which they fought. It occurred to me that I could ask Wolfgang, but then I remembered that he was busy. The man he held was struggling, tracing ‘eights’ in the air with clenched fists as his face turned blue. His eyes were wet, and as water pooled and grey heavy beneath his lids, eventually breaking free and slowly sliding down his cheek, it occurred to me that the blue of his face went well with his eyes.
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