CHRIS REPPUCCI

Cracks in the old foundations over the past year have demanded our attention; the tower strenuously lifted by necessary means and the slipping fissures fixed and reset. For some this required disassembly and the mastering of stone craft to put the fortress back upon firm footing, while for others it was more an exaggerated episode of routine maintenance. For some slick, black salamanders slipped through the thin portals and swarmed their basements, stirring the darkness int

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