I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: `My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. --P.B. Shelley
"A mysterious outbreak of a sometimes fatal pneumonia among gay men has occurred in San Francisco and in several other major cities..." (San Francisco Chronicle, 1981)
It was 1994 and they had just come back from seeing the Smashing Pumpkins at the Fillmore. The concrete was still wet; Sarah and Marty were still high. They haven't thought of each other for ten years now.
Seeking permanence in an impermanent world, they scratched their names, their words, their hopes, dreams, curses, burdens, secrets and lies into the ground beneath their feet. We walk on and over them daily. Join me as I bear witness and re-imagine their stories.