Cicerone´s Journeys: Twelve

Cicerone reckons these are dark days, end times, scenes of disintegration recorded in grainy monochrome. An expanse of human flesh in dim blue light. Prone bodies, sleeping, or dead, maybe. Killing fields, dumping grounds, agony and ecstacy, a garden of unearthly delights. No fire burns, this hell hath frozen over. We skate over its glossy surface. The traces we leave etched in the ice are like heiroglyphs; ironic, stubborn, resisting interpretation. And Cicerone says to himself "I want to be able to see what it is".