Utopia Underground_Instructions to Inhibit Temporal Delirium_To the friends of Nicholas Culpepeper._
Catalog Guide:
Utopia Underground
The shaft is unforgiving. Grinding into the night, the machine sounds slice into the skull. Hardened steel drill bits on the head pulverizing the bedrock vibrate the platform. The sounds are shock waves battering your bones. Burnt rock dust smells like the devil's pitchfork. Powdered bits of stone clog the mask, making breathing difficult. When asked about work the reply is always, 'I'm not in hell yet but I'm trying to get there as fast as I can.'Vertical drilling has many unique challenges. Removing the rock dust produced from drilling vertical and horizontal shafts that could eventually be ...
Instructions to Inhibit Temporal Delirium
Always Keep a Journal Journal II by Edwin LarkinDecember 28, 2034, 10:33 pm This winter takes another turn, painting the night in its formidable black. It is dark now, although only for this fleeting mirage that time has become. As the fabric of the time-space continuum continues to rapidly unravel, the light of my memory diminishes to a dim flicker of a dwindling candle. All that I know for certain is what is written in my journal and that my trusty terrier Riley needs to pee, so I will take him out now. We were instructed to keep a journal. I even try to keep o...
To the friends of Nicholas Culpepeper.
I crossed at the lights in to the busy stairwell of the public library. It's presence was isolated and weatherbeaten. It desperately needed a new paint job, and the play ground needed some TLC. I don't have any feelings at the best of times but something just doesn't feel right. I checked behind me, to see a slight shadow not thinking any thing of it at first. I kept walking. I reached for the door and turned the handle. Inside was a picturesque anthology of books. I stumbled over to one of the biggest sections in the library. All the way down to the letter H. My heart desired to learn the kn...
I Missed You
A red ribbon looks up at me from the dust, the silk looking like spilled blood. I pick it up gingerly, as if it might fall apart from the slightest touch, and tie my hair back slowly. There isn't much here but broken fragments of metal and glass. I secure my bulky, makeshift gloves and drop the fragments of glass into a small metal box. Then I begin to shift through the shards of metal, looking for the weakest, softest metals. Tin, a bit of aluminium and a bit of lead. I plop them into my worn canvas bag, the letters long faded, and continue walking. Amma tells me places such as this used to...