LOOS I NG
ARCADI A
Watchmaker, lord of time sitting among white doves. Returning to idle white machines as the measure of an unbearable void. Into the dark, reconstructing dreams of living machines; falling into mounds of vermilion sand.
F IND ING
ARC ADI A
In luminous glass houses, forgotten thoughts dwell in peace. The works of folly underground Looms rhythmically concuss. White discovery’s of Arcadia dance vacant To magnificent obsession.