The magician is in the tower about the village. His black silhouette moves against the dark blue sky, not in time with this world–like a projector being run too slowly. His hands trace arcane figures in the air and light bursts from them. Children gather beneath the tower and watch, mouths agape. Parents stand behind them with a knowing smile on their faces. They see the path before their children, the day in the distance when they will know these are the parlour tricks of an eccentric, when they will forget magic. The children see the path before their parents, the day in the distance when they will remember it.
An old city. Or the dream of an old city. Stone roads and buildings repeating themselves in all directions. Illuminated by the full moon everything is bathed in silver–bright though without colour. Stark against the starlit sky, it feels as though the city is floating in outer space. In a recess three men wearing cloaks huddle around a candle. One by one they hold their fingers to the flame, burning their callouses off. They are the city’s musicians–guitarists–scoring this endless night in this endless city. You ask them why they are doing what they are doing. “So it hurts again” they say.
I see two buses moving towards eachother along a route, a long straight road through a residential neighborhood. Night. Foggy. Like being underwater. The drivers can only see as far as their headlights allow them. I see a line through blackness, two dots traveling along it, bringing the world around them into existence. A lonely night. The people in the houses are asleep, their pets are asleep, their refrigerators hum. The buses drive on. Suddenly they see life ahead, light. The other bus. They pass. For a moment instead of two small worlds a single large one comes to be. They nod and drive on, comforted, continuing to bring darkness to light.