There is a blank space that fills the heart.
In this space between object and air, a world is information.
Traced by fingertips, excavated by imagination.

I always wanted to create something new, but now, newness is consumed without tiring and sinks into the depths of time.

What is valuable in such a society?

What is the value of something that has been left behind?
(Slipped from memory)

On a forgotten hillside a stone mosses.
Limbs of ancient trees speak quietly of a distant past.

I went fishing in the rapid flow of time,
to collect the receding images.

The hands that dyed the cloth, the feet that moved the loom.

Backwards and forwards.
backwards and forwards.

The past suspended in the mesh of the present.
Inner world pools into outer world.
Patina of shadow on sky’s milklight surface.

A vital truth takes inconsistent shape:
Beautiful irregularity woven into air.

In the centre of the archive rests an object.
The skin of the object, tells the narrative of its making.

A relic – the material form of an earlier idea.

In this archive which we call our dwelling we come to understand the surface of the water, the grain of the wood, the stitch of the fabric.

In this dwelling at the threshold of sky and soil,
we keep our minds with the process of one hundred years.