SPACE. It says how small man is. In the vacum of darkness where one can only believe one's own lies, the truth is ONLY a safety cable that attaches oneself from floating to oblivion. It's a thin line between small lies and the expanse of space.
DARK. It says man has to grope in order to know what's ahead. In the small world that man has created to call his own, there's no need to venture far out. One can create spiral paths that lead back to oneself. No need for a lamp to light the feet, nor a light for paths that go forth.
There's a world painted by Bilal that shows people desperately wanting power. Power to control. To control whatever little that is left to control, like controlling the robots that served their daily means. People will cling on to that. That power that give them reason for being. Over a few miserable scrap of metal and wires you say? People will cling on to anything for the fiction of being in power. When the world is a badly painted ochre of decay, Bilal shows that people will desperately want power.
It's a small world in the sci-fi of Bilal. Only our fantasy make them large. It's a small world that enagage our attention, it's only our ignorance that narrow our focus to the vastness of space out there.
Meanwhile, the path that spirals is one that is tread on.
In space no one can hear you scream.