The area around a vintage cabinet is surrounded by a nearly invisible shield where time stands still. There is a thick plume of smoke emanating from the cabinet and grows bigger and bigger. One man is on the outside of that shield and records what he can find on a camcorder for research purposes. The more the plume of smoke (resembling an underwater iceberg) reaches out, the more the shield has to claim new territory. The man steps backwards as delicately as possible. A creepy song plays as we cut out.
Along the echoes, past the icy shores. Dreams of a longing going unrequited. You made your bets and came up short. Here he is, the golden child. Seeking bitterness out of the ruins of a faded life. Bowing to the music from another temple. He dreams of iconic nights in a sheen of paper dust. Watch the film roll and watch it all burn. Anxiety forms in the secret shadows, the faucet drips of a secret amnesia etching out familiar words to the former sacred mind. Disintegrating memories of compassion in a lifeless world. Business comes, business calls. Tomorrow's vendetta is last week's sense of dread. But hop in to think out for solutions in the week ahead. If death was the answer, it would have been too good. After all, how fortunate it is for me to want anything at all.
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