That image and your video concept are hauntingly poetic—men spiraling through the air like slow-motion confetti from a cosmic parade. Let’s create a surreal tale around it. We’ll give it a cheeky nod to “It’s Raining Men”. We’ll also add a mythic twist that suits your style.
The Falling Men
It began on a Tuesday, just after the city’s clocks blinked 11:11. The sky didn’t darken, nor did thunder roll. Instead, the clouds parted like velvet curtains. From the heavens, men descended. They were not plummeting, but drifting and spiraling, as if caught in a slow-motion ballet.
They wore suits from every era. There were pinstripes from the 1920s. Neon windbreakers hailed from the 1980s. They even wore armor that clinked like forgotten legends. Some clutched briefcases, others umbrellas, and a few held nothing at all but the stunned serenity of dreamers mid-slumber.
The people below didn’t scream. They stared. Some wept. Others danced.
A voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere, sultry and triumphant:
“Hallelujah! It’s falling men!”
Not raining. Not crashing. Falling—like ideas from a fevered mind, like memories unmoored from time.
The phenomenon lasted exactly 77 minutes. Then, just as mysteriously, the men vanished. No bodies. No impact. Only their shoes remained, scattered across the asphalt like breadcrumbs for a story no one could follow.
The city changed after that. People began to look up more often. They wore mismatched socks in solidarity. Poets wrote verses about gravity’s mercy. Children played “sky spiral” instead of tag.
And somewhere, in a nightclub that never closed, a DJ remixed Gloria Gaynor’s anthem into a slow, echoing hymn. The chorus lingered like perfume:
“It’s Falling Men (Amen)
The clocks strike eleven, the sky opens wide, Velvet curtains part, and the men start to glide. Pinstripes and armor, umbrellas in hand, Spiraling slowly, they cover the land.
No thunder, no rain, just a mystery call, Shoes on the pavement, no bodies at all. The city is watching, the dancers begin, The chorus is rising, it’s falling men!
Hallelujah, it’s falling men—amen! Drifting down from the heavens again. Not crashing, not raining, just spinning in time, Falling like memories, falling divine.
Children play sky spiral, poets take the floor, Gravity’s mercy knocks at the door. Neon and shadows, a nightclub refrain, The DJ is chanting the hymn once again.
Lift your eyes, don’t be afraid, Catch the rhythm of the masquerade. Every step is a story untold, Dance with the falling men, brave and bold.
Hallelujah, it’s falling men—amen! Spiraling slowly, they’ll vanish again. From the clouds to the streets, from the dream to the pen, We’ll dance through the mystery of falling men.
Want to expand this into a mythic cycle or maybe a visual poem? I’d love to explore this with you.
@pencilmagmen 