The Terminal Horizon Highway The Terminal Horizon Tourist Bus Would you catch the Terminal Horizon bus? Travel sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The Long Highway Out here, the world ends not in silence, but in fire. The asphalt bleeds into cracked red earth, stretching toward a bruised horizon where the sky refuses to cool. Behind the glass, you drive chasing ghosts through a desert that forgot rain a lifetime ago. Beneath the Scorch Every road leads deeper into the furnace. Even below the surface, the rock fissures and weeps, hot steam rising through subterranean fractures where molten veins pulse in the dark, feeding an ancient, unforgiving heat. Broken Arteries What we built couldn’t hold. Rails twist into the dunes, swallowed by iron sand and wind. Bridges split down the seam, concrete splintered into raw bone, tangled rebar, and dying wires crackling into the smoke. The machines stopped; the wasteland stayed. The Last Horizon And when the road finally runs out, the...
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My Hidden Narrative
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My Hidden Narrative Video
My Hidden Narrative Poem
This scratching. This clawing. At the surface of meaning. Always searching. Always seeking. A resonance. A connection. Fading. Like whispers. In the wind.
Will they remember? The touch. The feel. The essence. Of me. Or just the echoes. Of what I built. What I made. What I said. A monument. To dust.
The art. The teaching. The endless pursuit. Of knowledge. Of understanding. A desperate hope. To leave a mark. Indelible. Permanent. But the fear. Always there. A shadow. Lingering.
Will they remember? The touch. The feel. The essence. Of me. Or just the echoes. Of what I built. What I made. What I said. A monument. To dust.
This hunger. This burning. To be seen. To be known. Beyond the achievements. Beyond the creations. To touch a soul. To leave a trace. Of who I am. At the core.
But the silence. The vast indifference. Of the universe. Stares back. And the question remains. Unanswered. Will they remember me?
Description
Dive into the haunting depths of "Will They Remember Me?", a song that explores the universal fear of insignificance and the yearning for a lasting legacy. With its fragmented lyrics, evocative imagery, and introspective melodies, this track invites you on a journey through the complexities of human ambition and the search for meaning in a vast, indifferent universe. The echoes of memory blend with elements of art pop, darkwave, and ambient electronica, creating an intimate and expansive soundscape, leaving a lasting impression long after the final notes fade.
Keywords
Legacy, Insignificance, Remembered, Art Pop, Darkwave, Ambient, Electronica, Introspective, David Bowie, Nu Jazz
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
Every stop is a story - Darwin to Adelaide River The Adelaide River Rupture The storm did not break over the Adelaide River plains; rather, reality tore open along the track. To the left, the familiar Top End landscape clung fiercely to its quiet melancholy. A lone gum tree stood sentinel over the charred scrub and dry earth, its leaves catching the last bruised light of a brooding wet-season sky. In the hollow below, the old fictional homestead crouched beside the rutted dirt road, enduring the heavy stillness that always settles before the atmosphere ruptures. Then came the tear. It began not with thunder, but with an overwhelming, luminous heat that shredded the grey overcast into molten ribbons. You could feel the vortex of raw energy sweeping through radiant ambers, searing cadmium oranges, and blinding celestial whites. The vortex descended like a folded dimension brushing against the earth. Where the atmospheric rift touched the ground, the landscape blurred into fierce gestura...
The Highway and the Lost Soldier The midday sun around Adelaide River does something violent to the bitumen. At forty-five degrees, the Stuart Highway softens like melting fat; it turns into a black mirror, rippling with an unnatural, liquid glare that pools over every low rise. That is where it waits. He is always trudging south, away from life and deeper into the blistering furnace, his boots making no sound against the tar. The Highway and Lost Soldier Standing From two hundred yards out, he resembles a stranded traveler you’d pull over to save. He wears sun-bleached, disintegrating drill cotton that matches the bone-white dust of the termite country, his head angled down at an impossible, broken angle against the glare. No broad-brim hat. No swag. No water bottle. Just stiff, unnatural limbs jerking with every stride. “Driver... look at his face. We need to stop—why won't he turn around?” He is no lost tourist. Could he be the linesman from the Overland Telegraph days who tore ...
The Terminal Horizon Tourist Bus Discovering the Terminal Horizon The Long Highway Out here, the world ends not in silence, but in fire. The asphalt bleeds into cracked red earth, stretching toward a bruised horizon where the sky refuses to cool. Behind the glass, you drive chasing ghosts through a desert that forgot rain a lifetime ago. Beneath the Scorch Every road leads deeper into the furnace. Even below the surface, the rock fissures and weeps, hot steam rising through subterranean fractures where molten veins pulse in the dark, feeding an ancient, unforgiving heat. Broken Arteries What we built couldn’t hold. Rails twist into the dunes, swallowed by iron sand and wind. Bridges split down the seam, concrete splintered into raw bone, tangled rebar, and dying wires crackling into the smoke. The machines stopped; the wasteland stayed. The Last Horizon And when the road finally runs out, there is only the ash, the petrified stumps, and the quiet. You are a lone figure sitting in...
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