It’s a big place, probably doomed, but still limping along. There are four floors of shops and restaurants and I find myself wandering without encountering many people. What do I hear in this hollowed out monolith of vanilla capitalism? First the starlings trapped under the glass roof with wings like playing cards shuffled and their calls which speak of death’s errands. Then the pneumatic sighs of elevators rising and dropping without passengers, doors opening and closing. The very machinery trapped in dullness. I keep walking without direction like a lean shadow. Soon I hear two women murmuring, sharing a secret outside a shoe store. They talk as I approach. They have deep voices. They’re like trees gifted with the ability to speak. Each is trying to teach the other a lesson. They are missing their respective forests. And then what is that? Another noise at random. A vintage carousel starts up. Wooden gears from the 19th century. Every apparatus cries in its own language. I hear Pinocchio weeping and florins dropping in a cup.
Planet of the Blind 