The palace next door is receiving a rain of burning debris from that eruption. The basement on the near side has begun to collapse under the weight of blackened figures. In the adjacent window, life goes on, sweetly and serenely, in layer after ascending layer of architectural fantasy built from fragmented artifacts. Atop that palace, DULCISSIMO, like a neon sign advertising the house of unending bliss at the very moment of its collapse, text borrowed directly from a Roman memorial tablet recording the sorrow of a mother mourning her lost son, the most precious and sweetest there ever was. Hotel Dulcissimo. Giambattista Piranesi meets Maxfield Parrish.
