A home is not a house, or… 2,151 things and fish under the floorboards. No matter how much you cut the bush, it still grows into infinity. It grows at night. It tickles the fox’s tail, and like an inflatable bed, the insect lying on the leaf feels its expanse, how the hair of the leaf grows softer, its diameter reaching out from its legs and then jump, jump, jump.
There are fluorescent worms on the walls, piercing through apples. The juice of the Com-post ~ to put together + to place. There are beings gathered here, who have slept vertically, horizontally (a total of 2,711 hours) who have soaked in the house, who have breathed its air, dreamt there, and had nightmares, burnt a finger on the stove, or sleepwalked throughout the house, through the bathroom, down the stairs into the kitchen and through the garden, and crawled up the fence like a snail. “WELCOME.”
text by E Molin