imagine, if you will, a table where clocks rest not on the surface but beneath, ticking in reverse order, each tick a forgotten accent of a symphony long past. here, we do not eat but reflect, pieces of a pie chart lost in vectors...
function:a virtual teaspoon bends around a transient hourglass, its sand now music, its function memory. touch the void, feel the phantom warmth where skin used to dance.
sometimes, the tables talk back. not in words but in clicks, a metronome keeping pace with footsteps. dance like the shadow of the heel that once left prints on these dramatic floors.
phantom limbs gather dust, but the air here is different—it's an echo of the absence rather than presence, a reminder of what could be if only the furniture could feel.
somewhere, a drawer yawns—a call, an echo of whispers.