The acid has just set in. We walk into the gallery. I am with good company, many close friends. Walking through the halls, I find comfort in one of the pieces. A white couch with spines like that of a porcupine. I lay on it. A calm comes over me. The quills breathe with me and change colors. The couch puffs up. I am entranced by the foreign movements of the piece. A current sent from the power station flows through the wires, down the street, past cars, past houses, past the sleeping children, into the heart of the city, down the ville, into the gallery, through the wall, through the socket, into the device and the room is forever changed. The projector coats the room in a watery teal film. Technic-color bubbles appear, disappear, grow shrink, move and stay, all at once. My attention shifts. It is time to leave. I walk through the sky-way, down the stairs into the bus terminal and out into the street. DO NOT CROSS tape criss-crosses the avenue. People huddle together in fear, or maybe its the cold. Police hold back the crowd. In the distance a robot examines a neglected bag, its a bomb. I am bound to the ground, as these events play backwards. People disperse from the crowd and return to their primary actions. I arrive at the point when the man places the bag down. I know him, I’ve seen him before. I follow him back to the terminal. I can expose him. I wait for the events to replay. “Who wants to know who is responsible for this attack!?” He is vulnerable. The man runs up the stairs, through the sky-way and into the gallery. I catch up to him, grab his shoulder and turn him around… The man is me.
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