The story weaves from different threads: a texture, a fabric, the flickering light colors and schemes that draw on walls. The room has no windows, my gaze goes over dome-high openings, hoses, a drawing, two displays, a large white tarpaulin that shields me from what is and protects me from what might be.
I look to the left: hands are touching flowers, stroking them, caressing them; the flowers do not fight back (how should they even?). I feel uncomfortable: the hands show me the flowers, the hands show themselves, I see delicate, fleshy fibers full of black-blue drawings. The hands and flowers disappear before my eyes, I see Rorschach pictures on them, what do I see? A fetish-like ritual, a conjuration of stories, dissolved entities, that I do not know. Who writes this story? Another look, hands and flowers change arrhythmical, they never stop touching and banishing me from their world. I go on, to the windows inside the white tarpaulin.