Dreams surging nightmared with memories, faces reset into a random past, a moment or an hour adrift upon the graph...wandering lost in portobello, mikie in hyper mode as circles converge and all paths led back to the same point of view; only the lightshow changes here, more feet form rhythms as crowds morph into claustrophobic imitation of the hour, form themselves from shadows upon the periphery of another's eye as silent streets decline and taxis mutate into early busses unnumbered and purged of destinations offering no guidance, no reference

Somewhere voice reminds you to walk to the water, find the river and return to the source, this labyrinth is a figment, a mirage cast upon the meniscus: look up and the surface intrudes, listen and the sounds show themselves as recordings...a b-movie upon a torn and wearied screen stained by the spillage of pasts and twisting the moment into a a tape loop, echoplex between last breath and the first.

A ghost in your own dreaming .. morning risen, streets slumber by, "am I awake? is this a dream?" mirror shows an alien face and moving animatronic self into the slipstream of the next mirrored distortion streets tiled beneath umbrellas lead further and yet that stillness born of uncertainty remains, gnaws unwearied upon the haze of senses...

"All he believes are his eyes,
And his eyes just tell him lies."

Clouds offer more rain here, 101 a blue tinged syringe pressed against fleshy clouds: but this is tomorrow a future both imposed and already past; this risen self only a possible, one of many, one more shard loosed upon the fairground, the distanced carnival of a cartoon world...in these places walls are broken, a shimmer of air given shape and form by illusory perspective, the excess electricity conveying between the friction of gene and meme offering up a fable of self and soul, a parable of difference, a dreaming road and whispers of immortality. Dust coalesced into an imagined vortex of the self...look too long, focus, and vertigo descends upon the spaces between...