Heavy heads, they nod at the end of their stalks. Hairless, they are so many smooth pieces of quartz, lips heavy, pendulous, obscenely red, horribly wet; fat tongues dart and flick and moisten. Brothers, all. Each stamped with variations on a face, his face, Alex, they stare at him, they turn to face his progress, sunflowers tuned to his idiosyncratic wavelength. They click their jaws, rattle their teeth, knock heads together. They do not quite come up to his waist.
Alex runs, and that only sets them to nodding faster. He creeps, and they stare. He speaks, shouts, rails against them, and they only stare. No expressions he recognizes. No words are in their mouths, only tongues, only an endless dribble of spit. He says to himself, this is your future. This is your inevitable senility. He lies, and knows he lies. There is nothing of him in this field of mindless heads , nothing except the merest gross resemblance.
Nevertheless. They clash teeth, and he is uneasy.