Comme des Garçons,
A glass knife rests in a grass field. Mechanical chirps softly construct a familiar melody. Silver reading glasses magnify a toad’s rapid eye movement, asleep at noon. Two full sets of house keys wait peacefully. A stiletto, after standing upright for hours, falls over in the breeze.
Ten meters north of these relics, a translucent white container labeled “OUR FAULT” would be empty if, a few minutes prior, a dove had held its bladder while flying overhead.