"We are nothing but dialogues. And each, according to their training, seeks the stage directions that concern them in a room where the lights are being adjusted." — Armand Gatti 

It could be the last survivor of many others. A dense heap of sharp remnants, crisp fragments slowly accrued over time. Each moment spawns the next—a chain where effect leads back to cause, spiraling to its ultimate undoing. 

They are always three, even within.

A meditation on tragic holism, this work unfolds a tentative language—a distant echo through empty bodies, receptacles of raw presence. What emerges is a “mental flesh,” an intimate, quiet apocalypse of fractured selves drawn into an imploding void. An unveiling, a stripping back to the essence of form.

The Oracle. The Dictator. Job 2.0.