WATER STRIDERS lead the spectator in a first person walkthrough, toggling exasperatedly in and out on a vast area, including hillsides and farm lands, little urban rivulets and derelict public spaces. The reality – as desolate as it seems – is still warm. You are lulled in the glimpses of someone's stern observations as time here runs on a different scale and pace, rendering processes invisible, energy and health levels fluctuating. A quest, so big and exhausting that only moving forward soothes you, impulsively collecting little plant-like ephemera.

As long as we stay in touch, we will be able to fill you in with the specifics.

Everything clings and gets stuck on the documented remains and pauses of our encounters. As familiar as it was – it is excessively mottled with greed – almost futile to cross. Oblivion feasts on the ring of our languages, tainted with unease and rattling perpetuity. Nevertheless, we are inexhaustible, each of us is already a congregation.

The multitudes of annihilated things recuperate. Through processes of aches and scabbing we gain our consciousness back. Through scorched bark we still walk. The survival of all the curls and speckles of resilient life etched repetitiously. Soaring in cream pillows, insoluble, energy storages coagulating. Space time markers, distance isolates.