Publisher's Synopsis
Is someone-or something-else here? Maybe visitors interested in us? In our genes? In our souls? Maybe we're property; just a commodity. Or livestock. And maybe they're our owners and caretakers, a savior or the top cat; who knows? Or maybe every sighting of things in the sky is just a product of our collective consciousness, the false hope that humanity desperately needs intervention by external powers. We've always looked to the skies for answers instead of looking into ourselves.
Memory is a mirage and a mistress to desire, forever shape-shifting and ethereal. She's inherently elusive and malleable. We acknowledge her if it suits our fantasy at the moment. We fear her because she is unpredictable. Can we trust our own memories? What if we can't? What if we can? Can we return to the scene of the crime to extract hidden details and see more clearly what we thought we saw?
Hidden things are the most seductive. Secrets reach deep into our desires. They torment and titillate us like a ticking clock or a distant alarm with no apparent origin. They agitate us and force us to react. They endanger our complacency. There is a missing element of our faith, but that's the meaning of faith. There is something out there that hovers and promises salvation like an automated voice messaging system.
To crack life open at the seams, to dissect and examine its contents is unnerving, like the reading of omens by viewing entrails or casting bones. We all tell our own stories; sometimes we even believe them. And sometimes we tell them for the last time. If you don't believe them, that's your problem. What you do with it is up to you.
