Maybe there's freedom under this brick, or inside its rib. Maybe there are spaces that are meant for sand storms and others that are meant to stay shores. I color this concrete; I hide its flaws in repeat. I thought I design life and coat homes with a dress, but every time I hear the earth it asks me: why are you building boxes?
"I don't know," I answer. "I'm just an artist that ran into school paper. I have a grey scale that follows my lines, and I'm learning to make them straighter. I practice color levels and make new clocks, I'm not the builder of this box. I change it into a form of belonging, or solitude. I change it to fit a life or its substitute."
But maybe there's more under these forms. Maybe there is nature still unborn. I hear architects saying build build, and all I hear is destroy. We're depriving earth of its cores and building weights on our joy. Maybe we're lighter, and fragile. Every time I design a box I am thrown in this battle; I am emptier than this. I am emptier than this.