About the work

There are decisions that unravel slowly, like a damp cord. Not a clean cut, but a steady fraying, thread by thread, until what held things together just isn’t there anymore. It’s hard to say when the unraveling began, or when you first noticed the give. Was it a particular word? A certain silence? A season changing, but not for you? The boxes, when they finally arrive, feel like the end of something that has been over for a long time. The rain helps, in its way. It softens the edges of things, makes the air feel less insistent, less sharp. Even the dirt on the car seems less like a stain and more like a record, a thin skin of memory.