There had been a short line of people at a door leading to an interactive exhibit on the other side of the room.  It must be quite absorbing, as you have yet to see anyone come out.  You glance at the disclaimer on the wall by the entrance that warns pregnant women, people with a history of heart disease, easily frightened children…you are none of these things.  Above an opening in the wall is a tattered banner.  It looks as if it was once very bright and noticeable, like a flag for a circus, or a political candidate.  The blues and reds and golds are soft and muted now, but still somehow exude hope and promise.  The banner reads, ‘SOMEDAY…’  You step through the door and it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, as the room is very dark.  Suspended in the air are the only sources of light – what appears to be specks of brilliance, pinpoints of light, as if white-hot dust had been blown from a furnace.  The room appears to be vast, as all you can see in every direction is blackness scattered with atoms of light – but by the sound of your footsteps you know the room is not that big…perhaps the walls and ceiling are covered with some sort of black mirror.  You feel like a colossus in a quiet universe.  Somehow the tiny stars all seem to be moving in one direction.  You unconsciously follow.  You find yourself at a metal door.  There is writing of some kind on it, but there is not quite enough light to read it.  You brush your fingertips over the message and find that the letters are raised, as if a welder had braised them there.  They feel like cold, hard scars.  They read ‘…you’ll thank me.’  There are a series of arrows leading from the words.  Your fingers follow them.  They lead to a latch of some kind.  You hadn’t realized that you had been leaning on the door to read the message, but when your fingers brush the latch the door springs open, and you stumble through it.  The door slams shut.
You are in an unfamiliar alley on the outside of the building.  The door is locked, and has no handle.

(video installation)

You are driving.
You are driving north on a twisting dark road.  You have just left an area packed with turn-of-the–century clapboard houses and sullen brick apartment buildings that appear to be pushing and shoving to get a view of the river.  The river is a great moon-lit thing that you can glimpse through the trees on your left, the silver slime trail of an immense snail.  On your right there are no houses because it is too steep, too stony.  On your left the same, except it goes down instead of up, down to the skeletons of factories, the train tracks, the river.
You are driving.
You are driving, not really listening to the radio that plays tinny surf music.  The dashboard lights turn everything in your capsule underwater green.  A mile up the road the houses and buildings will resume shoving each other, but now it is trees and rocks, the great solitary river, and occasional sodium streetlamps that hang in the black sky like frail lonely suns.

She is walking with inexplicable purpose.
On the left, heading south, dressed in a loose summer dress that blows with her movement and reveals nothing, she walks.  She walks as if hypnotized.  She is a mile in either direction from anything except shadows and trees and streetlamps and hydrants that have never been opened.   She carries a white birthday cake chest-high, candles blazing.

You are driving.
It is late, you are tired.
You just want to get home.

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