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Long is the road that ascends from hell to light, but the symphony of a synthetic starry sky lowers a rope and invites the journey.
Sam Rosenthal drops the mask and lays the Black Tape For A Blue Girl in dusty ossuaries. Sam Rosenthal is something else now. Sam Rosenthal is Dave Bowman.
Black electronic ivy infests the steering womb, but the whirlpools are controlled and the heart is steady. Sinister grins of a spatial Lustmord, a scratched "Zeit", a humanized "Atem".
Tolls. Deaf "Nevermore" enclosed in a hand.
From the moon, the convulsions of the monolith guide pachyderm drones towards inconceivable distances and while pneumatic voids swallow the glows of distant stars, sudden artificial swarms force the cloche into lucky turns.
Tolls. Rise-work-sleep, rise-work-sleep, rise-work-sleep.
Cinematic space-dark ambient scratched by retractable phatos. Schulze and Kubrick nod with reservation.
But Dave Bowman is alone.
The final Odyssey. A long corridor without memory, sinusoidal lights, deforming wide angles, and astral drones that crush the heart under heels.
And Dave Bowman is alone.
The Old Man's room is near, timeless gothic chords bounce off mirrors, suspended squeals, forgotten faces, words never spoken.
And Dave Bowman is alone.
And the Old Man walks slowly and Dave Bowman follows him, and electronic grains freeze the blood and she was so beautiful, and colors blur and shapes stretch, and the Bed is near and the Old Man points to it, and Dave Bowman lies down and the Old Man is Dave Bowman.
Nevermore. Nevermore. Nevermore.
Yes, finally Dave Bowman is alone.
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