This technologically driven world no longer has a past. It has infinite streams of Present which we circle like birds of prey, recycling information and losing a sense of chronology. First exists a void, a calm space bending gently under the presence of its occupant, diagramming an intimate universe. Reminding us of gravity, reminding us that pauses have weight as well. The figure is camouflaged, loitering around the splintered pixels of a broken tiled floor to witness the incomprehensibility of its own image. This is an empty pool for bathing in opacity.

Opposite this, a second space, filled with the carnage and fury of an angry planet. Manifested through hybrid post-human figures which make up a kind of Greek chorus, surrounded by objects of significance. Here the mask of opacity lies bleeding and is transfused by Myth. The chorus recites a seemingly endless rendition of an Instagram scroll. This broadcast fills the space with its affected robotic voices and casts a dark light. The idea of this expansive stream becoming a future artifact which represents our collective existence is horrifying in its banality.

Sprinting towards the sun is a torrent in a cavern, a volcano roaring into the night sky, an oncoming surge which streams towards us relentlessly. But it is also a rapid shallow breath beneath a pillow, the cool touch of tile on cheek, the silence of the interior.