On a quiet street, a lone figure approaches a weathered Victorian home. The roof over the porch is sagging, the paint peeling, boards and railings brittle and bleached from countless lonely summers. Along the roofline, gargoyles are perched, and all are missing their heads but one. The surviving creature looks out into the lawn, its mouth gaping as if cast in stone the moment before cataclysm.
The figure steps carefully toward the delicately carved double doors with a large moving box in hand. They step inside to survey the molding ceiling, the bubbled wallpaper, and the fireplace caved in on itself. A large hole in the floor groans in the corner as the wind creeps beneath the house. After setting the box down softly, they begin to pull out collectibles of bronze, glass, and light. They set sculptures on the dusty mantle just as golden hour licks them through the windows. An exotic rug is rolled out in the foyer. A replica of a Van Gogh is mounted over cracked plaster.
Someone from next door delivers a vase of fresh roses with a card that reads “I’m so sorry for your loss. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
And the figure places the flowers in front of the hole in the floor as the moving truck pulls up to the curb.
“But where light is sourced and directed is the marginal part of the picture. You have to also notice where it isn’t to appreciate the entire image.” -10/18/25
I will the machine. 