The Dwelling of a Flower Picked Yesterday is a ghostly sanctuary where intimate fragilities are disguised as seemingly stable entities. Through the handles of vanished doors, imprints are made from the now extinct and disasters have a recipe.

Apart, but coming together at the seams, we feverishly dance on the grounds that raised us human, and hold gently the more-than. Threads intermingle and entire lives sweep into a single barrel.

‘What we weave is what we have’, like a trauma underpinned, like a life preserved in a box in a box, like a star of extended space and sensations. Here, microtubules resonate repeatedly until time is not linear.

It is how metal, flour, paper, and birth control pills are sealed to heal; and when the boundary between [us and them] is as tender as the vehement sheerness of a curtain.

Colourless, we forget about death, about Nothing, to ascend to where thresholds fall asleep.

So let us dance across the glass in a frequency of continuous reshaping.

And until then,
let us feel,
and let us feel at

home for now.