Mirrors are portals.
Invisible presences meticulously construct the webs of our lives.
The Monolithic figure was always just out of reach and in some ways still is.
Our Gods were the media and our parents were ghosts.
They would visit while we slept and pass through walls before we woke.
With infinite time, we performed the ceremony of watching adolescence flee.
Daily routines of machismo and the killing of birds and insects passed the time.
The spinning wheels would soon turn to cheap subwoofers whose size, just like the heroes on the screen, were of the utmost importance.
My mother's newfound religion kept bleeding in every room of our house.
Scenes of floral patterns were accompanied by yellow stains and cigarette burns.
I would pick and peek through the burns to see if there was anything else there,
A search for anything Monolithic guided us into scenes of acceptance and violence,
I found ceremonial sounds whose bass and prose were drenched in anti-authority, education, and gold poison.
Choices of friends and family came with saturated hues and sports memorabilia.
There is a hidden cigar box of beer caps and forget-me-not’s next to a bunk bed and a halo.
And the wasps keep on stinging..
1744 x 3100
MPEG-4
Music By Angel Roche Jr
@lito_the_man
@avianrecordingco
