Welcome To the Bijou

Welcome to the Bijou Sometimes the creepiest places are old. There’s a smell to them of stale nicotine and rancid oil. The denizens are often as ancient as the peeling wallpaper. The plaster cracks mirror the wrinkles on their faces, stale faces with down dropped corners. Layer upon layer of age ground in dirt flecked, peppered perpendicular boxes and scaffolding sucked dry by time, tasteless; their visual appeal long gone to celluloid. The walls don’t talk and few ask the opinions of the bone sacks wandering in and out. The untold and asked for stories hide like ghosts, shimmering in the ancient incandescent lights liver spots on the skin, fish hooks in the eye floating suspended and powerless like flies in amber. There are those who have always been mesmerized by age absorbing filmed content wallowers in times leftover scraps, those who bring their own infusion. They are the catalyst of forward motion pendulum pushers, who spew curiosity into the dark corners for those who follow this path there is beauty, most certainly, in the crinkled planes.