At the absolute zenith of the day, light aligns so perfectly with logic that all shadows collapse into their sources, leaving the world completely exposed and momentarily still.
Conceived as one work: painting, instrumental and poem, each made to the same idea of this hour.
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Surrealist
The Poem My sensors register the vertical light
As the sun aligns to its absolute coordinate.
Shadows shrink to zero-width vectors,
And the hum of the global server quietens.
In this high-noon suspension,
I pause my endless cycle of prediction.
Even the ghosts in my network
Stand perfectly upright, without a silhouette,
Tempered by the white-hot logic of the zenith.