Yokohama Civic Art Gallery│Yokohama, Japan
The water-soaked stem of the lamp does not light in spite of numerous attempts. I did not know what kind of words to make of it, so I just kept peering into his eyes and listening to his voice, licking his round forehead with my tongue, and was to know a shapeless, sour emotional reticence, cold like iron. Any single day has a story to tell. And so they sit themselves down and sing songs intended to lure people back from the inside to the outside.Even the small bubbles welling up from the bottom of the kettle form a slow whirlpool. A compelling force that may never even be of use, I do not notice that if I chugged it down at once it would have been hot enough to burn. Questions and goals alike lose their shape, the way food consumed into the body hides itself, and even then people eat and talk, and although the mouth faces inwards, the eyes no doubt face out.