Page 364 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1
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covered  in  framed  portraits  of precisely  nothing—empty
            overstuffed  chairs,  abandoned  dinner  tables,  forgotten
            birthday parties. And at the end of the vacant, underground
            gallery, a cargo elevator  that only went down. Pressing a
            single, glowing button affixed to the elevator, I proceeded
            deeper into the earth. The equipment screeched for its efforts
            to deliver me further into darkness, and yet I didn’t have the
            sense of moving in any conventional sense. I might have
            been back in a dream but for the definitive sense of solidity.
               The next level consisted of a train of empty—or
            emptied—rooms,  all of them  spanning ages of various
            architectural  attitudes,  and all  of them  sporting the same
            white blossom of frozen light that framed the shadow of the
            Wolf. The solidified illumination was positioned anywhere
            a person might have stood or sat or posed. I continued more
            quickly now, eager for the end of the place. As might have
            been expected, another elevator appeared.
               Down again. The space of interlocking rooms continued,
            but with ever-diminishing earthliness.  The white-spotted
            spaces were slowly partaking  of a darker aesthetic,
            altogether  exterior  to conventional  styles. Black-stoned
            flooring, each tile inlaid with strange symbols, wallpapers
            made from skins and scalps, masts of bone and compressed,
            smoking ash, balustrades worked from spinal columns. And
            yet for all the organic trimmings, none of it formed even the
            slightest connection to any creature I was remotely aware
            of.  The fad  of emptied  photos continued  too,  but  having
            evolved into unpeopled frescos and mosaics brimming with
            absent  subjects.  Faceless  statuary  greeted  me  from  every
            widening,  smoking  threshold.  In  addition  to  the  empty
            sitting  rooms,  I  began  to  encounter  the  large  meandering
            spaces for other kinds of art and artist. I found myself, at one
            point, stumbling across an elaborate studio of high ceiling
            and dusty shelving,  packed tightly  with taught,  vellum
            canvases.  And as was now custom, each painting  was
            missing its focus, only a lingering, vague background was
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