those almost human voices glide above the concrete. they travel up in waves tangled in helices with the lines of heat distorting the concrete like the image of a distant oasis. a mirage. the asphalt becomes liquid before quickly recomposing itself. the boiling viscous tar is always ten steps ahead. with each step, the world is rocked and ripples cascade through the foundations of skyscrapers and the bases of lamp posts and screeching sagging bottoms of rubber tires. reflections -- of the walking, the running, the hobbling -- quiver and float beside their four-dimensional counterparts in the polished panes of glass. somehow, these vapid distortions of passersby seem a more accurate portrayal than the figures themselves. the reflections, the silently howling ghosts of the living, float on. they are reflected momentarily in those behemoth structures of glass and steel and concrete until they disappear forever. a microcosm of mortality. a sea of simulacra.
our structures will outlast us.
ars longa, vita brevis.
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