The dripping of the ice melt, iron lattice, old stone, salt and snow. Another neglected street, the suspect countenance of commerce that has ceased... and yet where are we in this Urban dream? Fumbling towards mediocrity as if it were the pleasure-dome. Promised, but wholly incomplete.
Silence falls from the sky as a beloved ghost whispers its way through an electronic veil to coil in the recess of my ear. Beautiful white dust of light on metal and wood thickening rapidly over the disused, the once darling now derelict, frosting all the edges, upping the contrast and fuzzing the focus, making art of the everyday. Ah, isn't that the way? Making the cruel beautiful. Making the darkness poignant. Making the pain of a pivot point a realization, understanding it's like a mirror or a filter and are we doing anything that nature doesn't do itself? Distractions, abstracting as form shifts as lighting changes. Shadows lengthen, focal length shortens, is anything real, and that asked, does that make any of it less beautiful?