He is quick and deft. He has all things under control. His black dungarees form a diagonal cross. Like an opaque soap bubble his face drips from his shirt without shoulders and collar. Under his eyes are wedges of make-up. His jug-ears are sharpened. Four strands of hairs passes to the silhouette. But his mime is concentrated. Really! The jugler is a conductor. The air around is an ocean of heavy clubs, which flow in a mess. Hardly, he hears their whirring. The fascination of the moment is short. A wrong grip and all clubs rush to the ground. But is it necessary to touch them? It seems, they hover on their own, like an endless play.
