The Chinese ink line separates sky from earth. It reads, it uncovers the universe, at dawn.
The horizon, a series of drawer-like buildings (from the past?) reveals the passage.
A dark, opaque place where objects shimmer: hopes and dreams. To sit in the city and work for hours, for days. Tormented. The ground, the carpet: the object, finally stirred by signs, takes on a new skin, becomes the vessel for some unknown prayer, incantation. Offerings, funeral rites silently resist flatness, perhaps reaching back to the essential. Pick up the object, carry it away, stage it in secret; expose the terrible ties that bind it to its accomplices, to its doubles.
A deceptive duplicate, the drawing summons reality in order to offer it, to give it back. To the night?