Vertigo in the dark. Depths spinning between these hutches of glass and light. Vancouver cityscape, a self referential precipice, divine and infinite.

“These,” it’s eyes twinkle, looking up from a kit model of the golden gate bridge, “are the ghosts of old friends, waiting upon the hour of their reunion.”

Gibson reflects “Every object of desire is a found object.“

And your voice echoes down the razor wire, through the tin cans of your childhood, “Everything about it is love…“