An ordinary British man in a tuxedo pulls a gleaming black piano through the sand. He came from ten years in the future to kill you, but first he must play a song dedicated to the cityscape. Dark green, dripping vegetation clasps his silver feet.

Art at its wildest best is so wildly elegant, shocking yet subtle, that death is as present as life. The pianist's cool, otherworldly eyes begin to cry softly. A stabbing tremolo reminds you that you still have a week before you turn 30. Salty ghosts start circling, while a white empty-ish mist softens the pain slightly.