2024, polylactic acid, 12"x5"x2"

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We were given stories before we had names, threads spun to hold the dark at bay. But to forget the first telling is to mistake the thread for the whole, to see only edges where there were once crossings.

Without origin, the other becomes shadow, a thing without root, without kin. We recoil, not knowing it is ourselves we have lost—adrift, untethered, mistaking distance for division.