The future calls from underneath endless glowing stars purified with long lost relatives, amber and blue, who pioneer their old film textures into the soul of the perceiver. That familiar future in the second hall, resting underground apart from a thunderstorm coming from nostalgic nights past. Stop what you see, halt even stationary movement.. it is the end of time, the objects you believe in take residence in the dream.
I remember a street not like the dirt roads in the middle of nowhere or the fancy places and their routes, a street somewhere in the near-luminescent dark of a suburb with its windows cracked; a suburb not aware that the passing years would chip it into declination and submission. As if drawn precisely into a storybook with old browns and faint grays, the landscape would wrap around the young and work ways into haunting the old.
Deeper into the past the sunshine is just made with a crayon, ready to break, ready to melt, to die. Entire memories are laid out over reality while the fragments of humanity are blasted out into the multiverse. Standing before colorful upright streams of dead gods, wax trails into invulnerable growths and corners for the falling debris. Specials on dimly lit bodies of water pollinate signs upon an abandoned landscape further from the white of the canvas.
The vault closes down with the remark of a thousand walls, a thousand parted destinies.. to shake the jarring picture as it moves for an instant in some shadowy vacuum of time.