They stand

They stand hands out, picture frame with a roatating back facing towards them, mirror finish on the back. Looking glass gone unused. Self image entranced into the clear glass in front of them which lacks the ever important silver backing

They stand with hands out, mouths open, screeching like some jungle bird, the sounds inhuman, no apathy for these howls, they are the break to the beauty of ambience

They move on tracks, wooden and hand carved but so long worn that its impossible to tell, the erractic movements like that of an anqutie clock with little knife cut figures that find a quiet dignity in their servitude to the golden prophet of time

The movements sycronized , working together like the gears on a clock, one turn here, two turns there, perfect symmetry, but should you ask them they will tell you they follow no time, that the path they follow is merely coincidentally laid with the ancient track

Some dont believe in coincidences

They are monitored, not for any particular real purpose, but the powers the laid be to the design of this infernal contraption decided its best nothing be left to its own devices, control is a means only to more control

Thus they go to the pound and select a few canines, polish their coats and let them roam among the people. Termite plaque stains their teeth. They discriminate non-discriminatly among those mearly following the path.

This was the master plan