I have never thought it a grand idea to place monitors screening Bill Viola's Maria and Martyrs on the interior walls of St. Paul's Cathedral--mostly owing to their allegiance with religion rather than a legacy to cinema, experimental cinema to be precise. I do however think that Stom Sogo's Ya Private Sky might work much better in such a setting: pushing, melding, exploding, clairvoyantly extruding, expounding, chromatically birthing, formally forwarding, literally nodding, focusing, burning, sensually intruding, photographically re-incarnating those pink marble Caryatid sunspots of magma straining in their uphold of vision's entablature, finally diving into wine-colored serotonin seas, there to be held beyond any reference to gravity, granularity or gutterbowling for win tickets in our metaphysical arcade of remembrance and virtue below Christopher Wren's Big Top existence of fiery consciousness in a haute-couture farrago within the neuroanatomical fusiform gyrus of Area V4 gorgeousness eliding with spectral legends of the ever-present white light drooling before death and its repatriation to our power-point plan of Sat-Chit-Ananda illumination in just over 3 minutes. The audio score was perhaps just as divine.