There is no blooming in this story. In fact, there may be no story at all – only a death-scented illusion of sex. And isolation that appears perennial. A labyrinth in which a dead end often acts as an asylum... or does it? I feel it can be different, but I don’t know how, or when. Powerlessness has turned into a goddman habit. The soul is naked, and its despair is naked as well. Sometimes, even mystery is naked, like the shadow that lost its owner. Too many empty promises bring forth extra gloom... Is disappearance the only way out?
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| Zeros |
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| Four Like One |
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| Intimacy Installation |
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| ... Over Spilled Milk |
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| Secrets & Droplets |
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| Stark Inwardness |
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| Exhibit Ω |
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