In between worlds, in between places. Certain objects, within their previous place, fall from their certainty. A collection of keys to previous buildings, all of which have lost their resonance as “homes.” Despite this, those same keys retain their ability to open the old doors. A house is returned to, in doing so, things lose their certainty. The walls, so far built through memory and imagination, lose their grip. What to do with the space that remains? Mementos, contained in a vessel ready to be taken over. Who can squeeze into this room? Tonight, I am watching this place from afar. Shards of a world detonate against the horizon, tempered by both the memory of habit and the habit of memory.
Other people’s lives enter the scene. A world presents itself, alien in its intimacy, yet fused with a desire to seal what time ruptures. Other people come to the fore, beacons of an admission of absence: expired as soon as they've arrived. A concordant desire to turn away from this foreground presence becomes a gesture toward insulation, a confession of disillusionment and a contempt toward the birth of a new intimacy. Aristotle instructs us to treat the other person with due moderation, somewhere between surliness and ingratiation: a moderation broken, however, as the rays of the past seeps into the flesh of the present. Nothing is taken as it is given, nothing admits to genuine spontaneity, and even an accidental discovery contains its own buried history of desires.