Dreaming in stained glass. Images and scenes of my life appearing as sheets of beautiful, painfully-colorful stained glass, wrapped and layered one atop the other like sequential stills on a roll of film.
The glass is solid, semi-transparent, sticky. It isn’t even glass after all. It’s all made of lollipops. I’m watching from the inside of the now sheet as someone else is picking me up, arranging the stack, trying to bind the lollipop stills of my life into a giant spiral notebook. Trying to look through the layers, to see if there is a title on the cover, but that sheet is lying face down on the table and the only thing I can make out is the inscription etched in scribbles on the inside: