Staring at my paintings in the warm light of the setting sun to the strains of African music, I can at last see them years from now. Many, many years from now, in fact. Rotting in boxes in the basement of some long-abandoned ruin, they will be discovered by a band of foraging migrants on their way south. Bearing no images, no signatures, and no dates, they will be immediately recognized for what they are—objects of worship. They will find their place on the makeshift altars of an emerging cult. Once they rot away, they will be replicated as faithfully as the available tools and materials allow. The replication will be ever-less faithful, but the paintings will survive and multiply. Other bands of migrants will adopt them in turn. Cared for by the growing number of worshipers, they will eventually reach Africa, where the cult will spread and thrive. To my relief, my paintings will finally reach their home. This I can see clearly enough in the warm light of the setting sun.

Addendum (October 1, 2016)

A powerful vision, this. Back to Africa! But the best part of it is that my paintings will keep being replicated, no matter how faithfully. Most important, they will survive and multiply for untold generations. By and by, they will spread and thrive. Hooray! Having come across this piece entirely by chance, though, I cannot but wonder about my cheerful vision concocted so many years ago. Much more likely, I now reckon, my paintings will rot away in their boxes in the basement of some long-abandoned ruin. At best, a band of foraging migrants will use whatever remains of them to make a bonfire. Fleeing the bite of galloping glaciation, they will relish the warmth of their temporary hearth. Their home for the night.