We live in a perpetual red twilight. The sun never sets, and never rises, and always hovers just at the edge of the world in a thick brown haze. How do you know I haven't seen the future? Or the past? Each one is like the whorls of your fingerprints, weaving this way and that. They say the print of an orangutan is indecipherable from that of a human; whatever we aren't even human anymore. Last night I walked below the bridge and saw you sleeping there, eyes clenched against the dark and a small solar-charged lantern glowing faintly as its power faded. No, you didn't wake, or move. You just breathe deeply, in and out, your chest rising and falling with a small rhythm. I wish you had woken, just for a minute, so I could see you smile. It's been such a long, long time. What will we do when the ice comes?
Solar-powered radio transmission station, through which visitors may transmit messages to the stars.
Wood, hardware, solar panel, deep-cycle battery, charge controller, lamp fixture, light bulb, altered telephone handset, concrete, radio transmitter, wiring, canvas drop cloths, found materials, paint, graphite.
Produced for Spaceness 2017.