Even the smallest hangover is inappropriate.
From the queasy ferry ride you are forced up ninety-nine tall stone steps before a lift plunges you back down below sea level. You are lightheaded and disoriented before you can begin.
Water leaks down the bare rock walls of the basement, but the cocktail bar is unperturbed. Down the hall a machine distorts raindrops into fleeting words in midair.
In the toilet, videos are projected onto the cubicle floor so you tarry longer than necessary on the seat, while in the gallery next door a contraption eats food, digests it and defecates.
An Egyptian sarcophagus stands.
A melted rug pools across the floor.
Intricately-carved vulvas and penises peep out from sardine cans.
Thirty Madonna fans sing the entire Immaculate Collection a cappella.
Tiny skeletal faeries ride taxidermied insect stallions.
An obese sports car bursts its borders.
Two goldfish take shelter under a butcher’s knife.
All the rumours you’ve heard about the founder are true.
Everything is patterned.
Everything is inflatable.
Everything begs you to touch it.
The petals are severed duck’s tongues.
A dead horse with human skin hangs from the ceiling.
Images bulge beyond comprehension.
You lean in for a closer look.
You press the screen to force a bloom.
The cheapest thing in the gift shop is an inflatable cactus for fifty dollars and you consider buying it. The coffee is burnt but oh, the view!
There is no signage. The leaflets do not inform. The clouds hang low on the hillside.
A version of this post was sent by email on the 26th March 2017 as part of Internet Care Package.
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