1000 years later, the weather cycled and a grey wind blew through town, searching around like “hello where are youuuuuuuuuu.” There was a dog and a small black bird and they would congregate every morning in the flat of the riverbed at the end of town. They would meet as the panels of the sky began to turn on, as the yellow-white bubbles of light joined to make one bright space. The bird perched on the head of the dog as the dog sat in the dark sand. The dog had on a bandana and a white graphic tee that said “HELP!” The bird had on a loose dress made from paper napkins.
Every morning they would watch the ghosts pivot around the town, sometimes walking with friends, sometimes walking alone, sometimes with Bluetooth speakers or something clipped on to their belt loops, playing music or radio shows or their own old conversations recorded, parsing through them for details for later. Sometimes the bird and the dog watched the ghosts like spies through newspaper holes, sometimes the bird and the dog freaked out and scattered when a breeze fell on them.
This morning, as they sat and watched, their eyes looped onto the building across the river where the daily footage was uploaded and processed. On the side of the building, etiolating in quality as it journeyed upward, was a wide-eyed mural, a welcome statement. There was a sort of government insignia? towards the bottom right, and two figures painted in Corporate Memphis standing tall over a tree line.
Trucks still circled the building but it was all different at this point. Nobody was really turned on. The fact of the matter being basically: When a world happens for as long as this one, habits insist themselves into perpetual being. Something about containment, maybe entropy.
The dog and the bird watched as the sky turned on like almost every morning. This morning (most mornings), one of the ghosts swiveled from its path to approach them. His feet made wet indents on the sand, brought bubbles of water to the surface. This tended to happen. Little crabs poked out of the sand. The ghost was silent, and as he settled next to the dog and the bird, his mouth moved. No words came out, so the bird spoke for him, for fun, and the dog spoke too.
Bird: Ok so it’s a tone poem
Dog: OK so it goes like this
Bird: We all live in a big box and make movies together