A demented smile descends its staircase, vignetted by chiaroscuro: the dream
is indistinguishable from its condensation and precipitation. Freedom of movement
through the exposed landscape doubles and triples into god, astrophysics, manhood.
The collagework is inherent. A time-traveling detective may or may not have resolved
the crime. Folk histories, however, persevere in labyrinths constructed out of nothing
more than grassy fields and a sock stuffed with bolts. Underneath the surface
of the image howl ghosts, and the cells they are imprisoned within can be opened.
It turns out that neither time nor identity are as dependable as we’d like to believe:
frames of reference determine, as in fix, dictate, require. Inside the chamber,
the mechanism
flicks movement into place. Censorship lines prove the text below
is true.
More on this in a bit…