In the foot-thick stucco walls a blunt hint of adobe anchors the revival. Always this nod to a mythic past. Thin dreams of realtors inscribed in the layered crust. Light streams and wavers, all the smooth cream-colored surfaces mottled and pitted. A certain broad dryness is spreading in the sun, capacious, democratic and matte.
Facades set flat against the street like a spread fan.
The plaster relief of a generic escutcheon too small, too high on the wall. Only Music I am become like a man standing alone, one free among the dead. A slim black computer is singing to me, a laser is reading notes. This impossible voice reduced to perfection and reproduced, a woman taking an angel's part written for a boy. Doublet and hose disembodied.