Beyond context, [. . (]. loops in the night, mysteriously weaving dreamlike threads through time. Portals open to reveal incomprehensible landscapes. Libraries whose doors were once chained are thrown open, and the dust from untouched tomes billows out. Books beg to be researched. Card catalogs mysteriously open, their contents spewed into the air like clouds of birds.
This then is enigmatic, twilit zones and fractured narratives unfurl toward infinity until they’re forced to close by [. . (]. Itself. Till then they roam the darkness, scavenging for meaning and purpose, the programmed directions their food, the reverberating tones their dissipating memory. [. . (]. is the storyteller and the story, the book that wrote itself, continuing its quest to pen missives of abject drama. The arpeggios and trills glance off darkened glass like fading wisps of dreamstuff upon John Carpenter’s awakening.
John Carpenter scrambles to write them down.
But [. . (]. has already moved beyond wakefulness and back into shadow, spinning new passages of longing and regret, wonder and hope, and ultimately dawning horror and gripping anxiety. The doors of the library slam shut. The chain secures the door. You emerge from your trance not quite what you were, but you can’t put your finger on what’s different, what’s changed. That’s the secret of [. . (].’s magic.
More about: [. . (].
