The tangerine I am devouring is you. You are dead before you are born. 


Dance with ideas of change. The rhythm is unusual.


Many commit to ideals of ideals wrapped within ideals. Unknown to themselves, characters are cast within society as sculptures of ourselves. Yet neither these sculptures or ourselves are solid fragments of what is truly understood. They are fragments of desires. Desires are romantic lusts, camouflaged in the cloth of bound pages that portray the illusion of a book worth reading.


Physicality is conceptually becoming an illusion while the illusion is conceptualised as the realm of essence. Not through wanting, but through the overuse and the welcoming glow of acceptance. Speaking words of how one is in love with a particular hat, yet persistently in search for visions of other hats, not to wear but to idealise, to think about wearing. How would this hat look? If I wore this hat, would I get invited to other activities? Suddenly, the smooth velvet cloth that captures the tailors design no longer shimmers under the light as it did before. The hat has not changed its cloth nor have the lights become a tinted hue. It is the eyes that peer at the hat from behind the pillow which have changed. In fact, they are the same eyes but how the machine registers and computes such visions has undergone a reconstruction through self-pity and a loathing to be wanted. The shop is often closed and the lights dimmed, though complaints of no customers echo within the cavity where thoughts come to die and misconception come to wildly breed. Misconceptions leak from the sculptural fabric and trickle inside porcelain cups that are drunk by anxious kings and queens dressed in potato sacks. 


Wild zebras in captivity are not wild but captive. Animals who cannot juggle, replace the jester who cannot roar. Yet both are commodities to entertain the sculptures that search for more. Eyes are removed from fleshy sockets as they search for a purpose as to why they are unhappy for the majority of their existence. Only using a sense of smell to uncover the mystery, all is a blur to the nostrils. A sense that is trained to explore artificial foods will not detect the smell of constructed time as it decays the dreams of the imprisoned but wild homo-sapiens. A pigeon slowly slides down a tiled wet roof. It is flustered as it slides to its demise. The pigeon falls and hits the floor. Not once did the pigeon attempt to flap the feathered tools attached to its torso. The existence of non-constructed time, whatever that may be, allowed the wing to develop, yet in that moment, misconceptions smothered instinct, devouring the nature of the beast and replacing it with genetically modified ideals.  


As a collective mass of pixels being illuminated by distance candle light, what is the mass expanding into? Something is making space from nothing. But what is nothing, when it allows for something to be?  To harbour a thing that is unexplainable would render the cradle infinitely unattainable, as what is cradling the cradle? Historical dogma has thwarted curiosities and given birth to an idealised trait of thought, that when questioned, is easily discarded as inherited gossip and flimsy speeches. It is a constructed ideal that places purpose upon the act of being, the act of existing. The mass of pixels that sits within the wing of the falling pigeon is doomed only to the extent of the mind that imagines the falling pigeon. The pigeon may have flapped its wing and flew to a tree. The pigeon did not have to slip from the roof. The pigeon could have been a zebra. 


The concrete and steel legs of a monorail penetrates the enclosure of the zebra. The zebra is eating grass as a vast proportion of eyeless sculptures, accompanied by imitations, take pictures. To keep up with ideals, the sculptures present knowledge about the Zebra. Hesitantly inquisitive questions are pondered until they are in reading sight of the zebra’s information. Once in sight, they use their eyeless sockets to periodically glance and recite the information in a broken and stuttered, yet confident manner, back to the mass of pixelated sculptures and fragmented speckles of light. Maintained is the dominance of the dogma. The oracle of animals. To fulfil parental ideals, many happily offer public commentary. Performed in a bizarre baby voice, the actions of the wild captive animals are explained to their imitations, and unfortunately, to onlookers. Their bizarre baby voice becoming aggressively insistent towards their smaller and oblivious imitations, to instruct that they should be looking at the pygmy marmosets as it eats a tangerine behind the reflective glass.


The pygmy marmoset steps from behind the reflective glass. It explains to the imitation of the sculpture, that the importance of life is nothing but an illusion constructed within the unconsciousness of the sculpture, resulting from inherited ideals. It continues to explain, that while you blindly observe me through the glass, you are not aware that the tangerine I am devouring is you. You are dead before you are born.  You never existed.

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