We sit in a park one Saturday afternoon at the onset of the Spring and we play Abul Mogard in our personal stereo. Somewhere in the noosphere, he gets to work and grinds the wheels of time to a stop.
We sit in this park like figurines in a diorama of nirvana bullet time, shifting our attention between the various objects and presences around us. People and animals, buildings, trees that are fractals that are trees. The only thing moving is our cone of attention and its zoom, they glide through the scene with diminutive grace, slow-motion surfers riding the colossal ketamine wave of Abul Mogard’s drone.