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City of Tomorrow (2020)


Tapiola: the garden city of tomorrow. A dog leading the owner’s leash down the street, stomping grounds that a runner clocks on his last lap. Left, right, forwards, backwards, every which way looking for those who wait. Scrolling definitions, panning through information on the park bench or opening a thesaurus to a word that manages to escape its designated seating with every glance. Idyllic and modest, thistles busy widening the cracks in the concrete. A belt buckled to the function like a thought towering at the top, cape in the wind. Waiting, reading a magazine in the waiting room just like the one at the dental office, waiting for your name to get called out.

 When do we know when we’ve arrived? Make-believe for a pinch of solace in the vernacular, accessible for all and flummox free. Echoes of a ruckus galavanting in the upper strata before they slip on caviar, bathing with sturgeons - boasting like: who caught the biggest barracuda? The golden age flashing before our eyes, the golden age ubiquitous as relative as gravity and time trying to peep into the physicist’s study cabinet. A jocular sycophant dining with the elated harbinger. Panacea in front of our noses, quaint, clear of all qualms.

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