CHRIS REPPUCCI

Wisps of soot still crawl against the tomb walls, sifting through the cold and ancient air, so many granular remembrances, and so many old cries of sorrow or joy, enough to fill a mouth for eons, and in animatronic modality the patient person parrots and parodies their previous incarnation nearly perfectly, shaking hands with the dummy prepared for their friend and sidekick who’s head falls off as soon as the camera roles and the Anima slips up and integrates into the ceiling