These activities should not be considered work: products or results of deterministic labor. These processes are not useful, are situated as counterproductive, agonized and antagonizing to normative equilibrium. These objects are not living nor are they simply dead matter, they are not natural nor do they represent a passive flow, abstract diagrams of sense data, or birth continuations of nullity.

The Objets Fatale can be said to exist to the extent that they are felt. The unraveling of its tenuous terrestrial relations equates to the unbraiding of one's own anchors to culturally mandated reality architectures. To interact with these objects is to face one's own undoing by phantom limbs.

The universe is sweeping through the windows, pouring in through the cracks, humming tides of insatiable cosmic flow, woven tapestry of flux, pure horror, hallucinatory beauty. Everything, everyone, everywhere is adrift in its currents, save only Art. Art is unnatural; it is the epitome of the synthetic, the primary contrivance, to be distinguished from nature at every point except perhaps its material instantiation in tragically poetic frames of stasis. All material decays, all life is consumed. The locus where physical material meets aetheric miasma delineates my obsession with artistic production, describes the site of my research, transfixes the flux under a lens for momentary observation. Even this will change.

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