The Prince and The Ghost Whose legacies inform your choices? Do you trust them? Like a veil, whispers from the past catch your breath as they fall before your face. Do you feel comforted, or haunted? Veil Glimpses of truth, r al v il d n a ill p ea ntr , mark the pathways through me. Am I Free From This Dream Pt. 1 You’ve been here before. While you walk through vaguely familiar spaces, muffled faces make declarations that are swallowed by the air before making their way to you. But you nod; you know what they’re saying. This is all a pattern, a cycle, some quietly grotesque carousel. A ping in your mind tells you something is strange. Heed it, and it slowly grows from a whisper to a roar, pulling you against the flow of the predictable wave, before being overwhelmed. You forget. The carousel spins on. Echidna Dygital Suspended on the line between benevolent connection and insidious seduction, Echidna builds her home. Beware, all wayward travelers. Pathways Through You No. 1 - Wayward Winds Echoing calls confuse and manipulate. Fallen leaves and soil made of insecurities and doubt conceal the path and are kicked up by wayward winds, clouding the air… Pathways Through You No. 2 - Canopies …a change in perspective — simple as an upward tilt of the head — reveals rays of golden clarity punching amorphous, disfigured holes through the inky black-green canopy, creating columns of warmth, beckoning… Pathways Through You No. 3 - The Doorway Is Open …linger too long in the warmth, and it turns tepid. Brilliant gold fades to brassy, mustard-yellow. Forward movement and another change in perspective are needed to realize that the pathways through you are webbed and laced — serene and treacherous alike — into a telluric tapestry that deserves lifetimes of study to appreciate. Phasing Faces (Facing Phases) Sir, I ever — em — must…ah. Trevor is a sir over that summer eve, Iris. Am I Free From This Dream Pt. 2 You’ve been here before. A milky fog obscures the setting. You walk forward...look left…right...down at your hands — nothing but grey stillness. A familiar sound echoes — muted and unstable, but insistent. A question materializes inside you. Condensed and focused, it boils to the languid surface, like sulfur bubbling out of a mudpot, where it bursts and evaporates into the thick, grey fog, doing its part to cloud your senses. Its answer seemed near, but is no longer. Release (When Your Face Evaporates) One moment it’s undeniable; the next it’s a sharp, private snapshot; the next its edges are blurred, details lost; the next it’s a twinge of nostalgia. Do I hang on and search for its source, or do I release and move forward?