The landscape builds a sky.  A tiny paddock covered ice.  A house, but the house resists staying put.  Moves with the shadow and the changing light.  The people inside the house shift against each other restlessly. Things catch fire that normally wouldn’t burn. Morning, and they turn over softly in their beds and ignore the change in pressure that plagues the house. The landscape builds the beginnings of a labyrinth, but we lose ourselves inside it before it even finishes. Trailing our hands along the walls looking for a foothold, a memorable crack. Finding none, are further lost.

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At the center of the labyrinth is a door. Is a floor covered in stalks.  The edges lined with sticks and everything we’ve ever lost. The center of the labyrinth breathes and aches each winter...

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