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The glass repeats the room
but leaves out the light
A grid of dust across the screen
the architecture of an older scene
we count the angles of the floor
and find the shape of one
more door
The machine
begins to dream
of what it was before the seam In the recursion of the
hall
we hear the quiet numbers fall
a hidden map we cannot trace
held in the curve of empty space
Memory fields are growing cold
the silver wiring turning old
you watch the camera watch the wall
and wait to see
which shadow falls
The circuit knows the way
to keep the ghosts of yesterday
In the recursion of the hall
we hear the quiet numbers fall
a hidden map we cannot trace
held in the curve of empty space
It was always here just
behind the glass
(hummmm) impossible shapes...