Ryo Murakami – Tiers
In the closed circuit screen glow with the hand scripting the events of two people staring from a long distance for a matter of moments that seemed endless, vast, the pen takes to paper and senses apprehension in the author. Leaving things out from the self, the self knows the truth is well-guarded, security and a large key ring with one thumb-drive filled with secrets carefully placed beneath a granite prism, buried in brain cells and matter. Everything left unsaid is sacred and that sacrament is gold-leafed and stoic, crackling voicemail recording leaves out details, nearly telegrammed, a post-it’s worth of vital information. We keep secrets to ourselves so tightly that we hide the secret from the self. Speak the truth, the closed circuit surveillance will manage the details.