Trafalgar Square

A young child in a fairy outfit runs around a park. She brandishes her wand at invisible creatures. Her yellow hair blows in the breeze while dark clouds gather above her head.

Glass smashes and scatters as a frail old lady in a pink nightdress clunks against the concrete. Scarlet blood pours from her head. Two drunk nurses with heavy black eyes run out from inside the building and fill their glasses up with thick red wine. They toast to eachother's health and dance to the sound of Chris De Burgh.

The old lady wakens, as if from a dream. She is sitting on a bench in Trafalgar Square. An elderly gent in a top hat and tuxedo offers her bread before turning into a seagull and flapping off into the sky. She starts feeding the pigeons and whistling an old tune. Before long she is covered by pigeons, cooing on her head and crapping on her shoulder.

It is now dark and the stars are shining in the sky like silver beads. The old woman has ripped her clothes off and replaced them with paper. The pigeons roost on her shoulders. Everyone else is in bed, or never existed in the first place. She sits motionless like a Buddha.

A legion of monks with bald heads and red outfits fill the courtyard. Hundreds of Japanese tourists descend upon the scene, their cameras clicking and flashing.