DEATH

Of all the ways death could be, it might be constructed. An obelisk is built by the living in respect to death, but there is another obelisk beneath it – an inverted black obelisk that is death itself. The memory is the spectacle of the actual. The spectacle is designed to placate and satisfy the needs of the mourning, as the actual trembles beneath, a living death not made of stone. This obelisk is a shadow not created by light, a visible darkness. It is covered in eyes; it is an eye.

Beneath a lighthouse there is a similar growth, a negative replica of the lighthouse that does not shine out any warning. The subterranean house is a specter. The specter haunts the island earth. The lighthouse can see far out to sea, and its specter is blind.

Death isn’t an animal, and it’s not a ghost, and it’s not a mirror. It is more like ice fishing than goose hunting, more like water than sky. When we die, we stiffen.