Boxes. Squared walls. Framing openness. Thin precision. Unpopulated. Empty as ruins. Last season's wasp nest. Abandoned or not yet filled. Waiting.

Currents through flanges. Silver and black. Layered as fishscales. Opening to the flow and then closing, like lungs, a sort of breathing but all in one direction. Flow out and then settle. Out and then closed. Nothing moves back in. Directional. Like time. But pulsing. Does time pulse?

His hands are large and square and open.