Decoration

On the Gold Coast Theatre building, a concrete mask pretended to moan. Or sing? We weren't sure which.

We deduced it despised a violin and bells hanging below it, an architect’s tacky gifts.

There was concrete. There were bricks, glass, wood. To these we donated our need of symbol,

our weakness for decoration. Our bodies represented us in front of the old Gold Coast,

which had left behind its design in order to become. We are there no more, have scattered

to a heresy of heres. Our memories are synaptic masks that pretend to moan—

or sing? We’re not sure which. Our memories design an architecture of absence.