R A Bateman

Gradient R A Bateman

Rushing upwards, a diver on a collision course, weighed down by years past and days now gone, dragging against fragments breaking as a fresh crest on the wave. All around is a screaming black void, empty and inconceivable, but there is a faint blue glow somewhere out beyond perception, a sickening inevitability. Twisting geometric patterns weave themselves out of nothingness, bending around each other, dancing back and forth between the here and now, singing harmonic notes against massive glass walls. There are demons here.