The figures remain quiet. They speak through the inclinations of their sagging bodies. Stretching limbs curl around fickle sricks and pillars alike. Although we're winding down, rooting is beside the point. Instead the staircase becomes the place for a maladapted merging between two realities. To satisfy a sculptural obsession, taking and losing shape, amongst the ornaments of my nostalgic desire. Squeezed, i am graceful and gushing from the gaps erupts a murmur of contention.
