Les Cirque des Morts, Collaboration with Sara Jama

A cocooned cacophony of crickets serenades overgrown fields, drowning out the creaking of rusted cars long since abandoned. Maroon and sable tents blot the dilapidated ground— bloated and weathered, strips of fabric flapping in the harsh elements. Legends of wraiths wander, replicating whispers of infected insanity. Laughter lingers in suspect echoes, Rippling from pasts reborn in presents: futures to be later replaced by the past. The smell of burnt sugar crackles with the purr of buttered kerneled corn: invading the nostrils with senses whose stimuli feign belief. A faint humming of Entry of the Gladiators creeps in loudening crescendos, adding to the cacophony deigning dormancy in the field. Fragmented timelines, intersecting by the call of the Barker. Stained cotton candy melts, reconstitutes, melts once more. Saturating, replicating, stands with insidiously sticky omens. Ghastly sickeningly sweet mori mementos. Resurrecting the dead from preternatural slumber. Within fractured milliseconds, the cycle of the tormented deceased rise. From the ashes of unburnt airwaves, Rippling through screaming minutes yet frozen in the midst. A varicosed bearded woman floats aloft grassy overgrowth. Reanimated tigers lurk and phantasmal elephants howl. Rings round the air in gaseous hush, like cigars puffed by mustachioed men of game. Insufflating smoke with striped suits in candied reds and white. The air rises to the resurrected show, Cries confused for laughter tickle cochlea of the living.