The space they are in is years long. Two, they hover on a threshold. One reaches to touch the other. The hand goes through. Waves radiate. The past is made of water.
But they seem happier now thanks to the memory pills. Each moment is shiny like a toy.
The viewer has been watching a static-filled screen.
He says: She is my ghostly labyrinth. Her voice is filled with interference. She tells me of faraway places. I do not know who is speaking. But it is a kind of contact. So I never stray far.
The sound of a small aircraft trails through the air again, a play of disappearances that spreads through the solitude of a man spinning over canyons of light, the rattle and shake of the tilt-a-whirl, the barkers and passing streams of cotton candy girls and each time Yves Klein I fall with it.
Traces of frozen waves undulate fossilized plants and birds from the Matisse period; the songs the birds once sang; the dotted lines that map their extensions; the tiny holes that vanish into the space between here and there.
The figure gathers the elements and rolls them between his fingers until they form a ball. Many hours to make a brick: many bricks to make a curve.
The snow falls.
The house is in the middle of a field.
The field is everywhere silent.
The field is everywhere the same.
The house is an intersection of signals.
The house is continuous motion.
She wants to leave.
The house catches her.
She puts it up for sale.
The house changes address.
The house is a cabinet of curiosities.
The house is possessive.
The house is uneasy.
Who will she bring here.
Where will she go.
The house is a collection of sites.
The house watches her move about them.
The house is a stifling theater.
The house is the performance.
The house is the audience that fans itself.
The house is every fan and the way it flutters like a bat.
The house is the decorative elements on paper.
The house separates from paper and floats in movement.
The house is the sound of beating wings.
The house is suspended in the air.
The house falls.
There is a plane of ocean. There is an array of windows. There are green and yellow rectangles that glow a concrete expanse.
There are dismembered automobiles.
There is a seated figure. There are wavering tones from a cello: the strings are tendons; the bow is a waveform.
The air is humid with pasts that settle on thin sectional ladies who promenade transparent sailors through the ways each thing points beyond itself.
This is the edge of the world. It is made of paper.
One looks away from the other convulsing on the floor onto the window-framed sunrise, rooftops and flower-pots, mutating conditions and maximized shareholder returns then back at the other now curled up and quiet maybe breathing.
When the signal sets the faint young boys into motion, each sings along to remix himself while the strobe light makes of him a chronogram.
Loops made of displaced pop songs arrive again and again amidst rhythms and bass, movements of the body and cinematic reveries of composite sex and revolution that stretch indefinitely into the pulsing of the lights.
Later, the faint young boys will disperse into another night of twinkling razor wire, each pulling a coat tighter against the cold that creeps along planes of sweat, head filled with the dissolving ghosts of pop songs, traversing alleys along the silent geometry of the cracking towers.
The future is recombinant.
She is sequences from forgotten films that flicker and go out among the isolated shaking of the remaining leaves. There is no beginning. There is no end.
The past is an underground chamber. When you enter you break the seal. The air you breathe runs ahead and erases what you came to find.