In the recording of history, one is allowed only a single exaggeration. Where should one put the precious exaggeration? Reserve it for the consummation of love, for the big fight, for the resounding first line, or for the dying man's last words? Or does one hide it away, underneath the surface, hoping to give the impression that it is everywhere? The artists have taken things into their own hands. If all exaggerations but one must be taken away, then they will spite themselves. They will not be satisfied until they have wiped exclamations from the face of the earth. Gnomes will mouth empty aphorisms. They will repeat everything, and so, precisely nothing. Their slick industrial all-weather varnish will be squeezed between some unknown material and the stares of passersby, rendering every smile expressionless.

More people have started to stare at the concrete gnomes. One points out that several have stuck their middle fingers up. Without a discernable pattern within the quincunx, or with the streets, or the opera, or the architecuture in the square, the web of middle fingers became an eyesore.

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