A variation of multi-coloured elements invade the shape of a bust, filling shoulders, throat, eyes, nose, and hair. This organised chaos belongs to Pratolo, a gentleman living in the south bay of Italy where the sun shines and the air tastes of salt.

Pratolo wakes up at dawn, from the back of his head he grabs his breakfast: an appetizing red gala apple. As he strolls on the beach, he looks at the horizon and smiles, his small teeth catching sight of a throat filled with slices of fluffy white bread. On his way back home, his path crosses the one of the post office lady who, with a look of disdain, flips her head and returns to her stamps and envelopes. Pratolo is used to dwellers turning their back against him at any occasion. Except for himself and his old papa, everyone else’s body is made of flesh and blood.
He was born with life’s necessities within, physically capable of taking care of his hunger himself. He attempted to buy bottles of drinking water at Mrs Garbjamda’s shop but he soon discovered his intolerance for the liquid.

One afternoon he asked his father:
‘Pap, why can’t I drink the water I buy at Mrs Garbjamda’s shop?’
Saddened by his son’s question, his father replied:
‘Because the water you have been drinking at home since you were a child was in fact water filled from the sea.’
His eyelids drooped  as he tried to look away from his son’s appalled expression.
When Pratolo is thirsty, he goes for a swim in the ocean and drinks away. He hardly ever goes to Mrs Garbjamda’s shop anymore, except when he cordially expresses his best to herself and her family.
A family. He had wanted one of his own before, but how could he meet someone who could accept him for who he is?

One afternoon, he asked his father:
‘Pap, how can I meet someone who will accept me for who I am?’
Saddened by his son’s question, his father replied:
‘You have to trust your destiny, son. I was lucky enough to reside in a village with people of all kinds of different fillings. Your mother was a strange shy and introverted person whose body was made of flowers. She was embalmed with pot-pourri scents which charmed and attracted me to her personality.’
His marble eyes (as he was in fact comprised of board game elements) shone bright and the cards which took the place of his teeth were all distinguishable to his desolated son.
‘Son, don’t cry!’ screamed the father. ‘You know tears are not good for you! They will glide into your system and rotten all the food that’s inside of you!’

‘I never let my feelings out, Pa! Please let me cry and rot from my pain, that’s all I deserve I am a monster.’
In a moment of panic, the father who felt so much for his dear son, plunged his fingers made of wood into his son’s eyes socket and tore his eyes out.
‘Father! I cannot see! What are you doing to me!!’

Sat in the corner of the room, his son’s eyes crying in his moist hands, Pratolo’s father sobbed and whispered incessantly: ‘It’s for your own good, my son. Your fruits, fish and bread cannot drown in your despair.’