Honestly, I don’t know what’s happening here, and I don’t want to either, but it feels fantastic. The gallery crawl space starved of air is properly claustrophobic and weirdly prenatal, if such a thing could ever be the crime scene the floor suggests. Off topic, I’ve been re-reading A Fire…

“Walk through town and chances are you’ll find flyers strewn across the street selling the company of strangers. These haven’t fallen out of someones bag or slipped from pages of an awkward magazine, they’ve been thrown there on purpose… ”