On every strand of yarn, I migrate from one body to another: a journey on a burdensome, rugged path. Yarns build up, and split, divided like an ancestral cell.

But at some point in history, we stopped splitting: we claimed both the eyes, a coherent brain, unique fingerprints. In this present world, this gallery, my eyes follow the strand to seek the destination. My mind struggles to find the way out of this tangled maze, the frail body of wool.

I catch myself unravelling the knots, organizing the chaos, tidying up the mess. I meticulously design a Western-style, palatable-looking dish to conceal the salty undertaste of Eastern tears.

But maybe I should let go of the yarn, and cherish the clutter.

Maybe that is how I should clothe the naked presence of my exhibition.