Still Life of Las Vegas

An apple, the dress. Windows hem the courtyard, a thousand eyes staring down a peculiar pathway springing forth from tinted doorways, bubbling out towards the promised land, to great Oz behind cheap metallic handles. It is etched into a decomposed slither by colored rocks, pink and white, and beyond them, the rotting hedges rise up and manifest into concrete stone. Each window is shrouded by aged gold; each curtain dyed a mottled brown and imprinted with floral codes. We strive for anonymity, they seem to say, we are the enigmatically invisible. Indeed, as the gray barriers reach higher, I cannot make out where the building stops and where the sky begins. Outside, yes, but cautious. In this private garden, there is an implicit message: beware this anti-Panopticon. Sentience and rationality are not doorways, merely walls to a larger maze.