A disembodied, Icelandic woman gives me a book of arcane photographs.
I find in my hands, a pictorial grimoire, with her spirit residing within.
The thin book is already open.
There are three, double page spreads.
The first is a high contrast monochrome image of a primal man. The page feels like a living texture of earth and sand. I see his strained back facing the camera, skin covered with mud and grime.
I cannot see his head, just a taut neck bending into nothing.
His body is contorted, twisted, naked, muscles tensed.
It is an image consumed by darkness. That which I can see, appears to be lit by ritual fire.
I turn to the second spread.
The pages are translucent and grey. I am staring down at solid lines of heavy black ink, vector perfect. A maze, a labyrinth, composed of squares and sharp right angles.
Through the semitransparent page I can see the photo of an ancient Chinese armchair with vague dragon like motives of faded gold the color of bronze. Its blood red cushions eroded by geological time. This solitary piece of furniture sits in the darkness of an ancestral house, long forgotten by man. The maze appears to be superimposed upon it.
I hear the Icelandic woman speak, though I do not see her.
With her words comes the knowledge that another planet has been found. A planet related to Mars and War.
Her voice is prophetic, clear and dark and guttural, rising from buried depths.
She speaks the name of this planet thrice.
“Frice. Is True Love.
Frice. Is The Enemy.
Frice. Is True Death.”