Moons rest low enough to touch. Everything; all walls and walkways, even the luminescent spheres themselves, porcelain.
Men wander the labyrinth of labyrinths of labyrinths, peaking in and out of corridors. Passing the same markets again and again and again… they pick up telephones, only to meet the vacant hiss of the exiled. Omnipresent mantras tangle in the shadings of stone and menacing branches.
They find doors within doors within doors, confronting interiors far larger than spatial reasoning would suggest. Beyond one frame, a desert fortress overlooks the Dead Sea at high noon, a panning mirage. Inside another, the scene repeats from the opposite vantage, hours later, glistening under moons partially submerged in salt. Through the next, a threshold brightens at dawn, clearing the fortress and the sea overhead, its reflection cycling from speck to surge—cumalitively, again, rippling porcelain without end.