Illness isolates, blurs time and distance as it sharpens the edges of discomfort. So many maladies to befall the mind and body, countless hours spent tending to imperfect forms and their compounding conditions. A fog enshrouds the ailing, becomes a barrier to bear. Look now: the world just slightly shifts to continue moving past them.
In Another New Calligraphy's eighth Impossible Task, the blotchy skin of night is pulled away as tall presences emerge
from hazy absence. Fallen fruit like severed fists stipple the ground, slightly toxic to humans. Death stops a little too late, while lava smothers and white rapids rush. A scream slices summer-soft air. Irrepressible confidence masks a certain naiveté about the world. Branches are carved like the wind blowing shards of ice against the back of your neck. The crunch of a bite cuts through the silence.
from hazy absence. Fallen fruit like severed fists stipple the ground, slightly toxic to humans. Death stops a little too late, while lava smothers and white rapids rush. A scream slices summer-soft air. Irrepressible confidence masks a certain naiveté about the world. Branches are carved like the wind blowing shards of ice against the back of your neck. The crunch of a bite cuts through the silence.
Please give yourself a quiet moment to enjoy Impossible Task.
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