CHRIS REPPUCCI

Around the rim the light curves and sizzles as if circling the horizon, cresting it sends shattered gold and bright citrine slivers sweeping the concave wall of brazen radius. It is distant, but grasped somehow by our future selves, a hand reaching into a pinkish cloud, so close we can taste it, the specter of destiny with outstretched hands and clear globes rising from their palms; each sphere contains a perfect and whole reality, a realization of an ideal, something we fee