This project doesn’t explain itself. There is no introduction. Only artifacts — text and objects — encountered without a guide. The text, presented as fragments of a diary, unfolds beside a series of dark, hybrid sculptural forms, discovered rather than authored. It reads like a record of psychological unraveling — or perhaps a survival manual written from inside the collapse. There is no claim to truth, only a voice trying to maintain coherence as reality slips. The rest is left unread — or unreadable.


Dairy.
 Not for transmission. For myself only. Verification is possible. It is not excluded that they are reading through the ventilation system.
May 30

My knees were talking to the wall again. The wall blinked. It’s a code. It’s always a code. But the cipher keeps changing and I can’t keep up. I must be faster. They are watching, tracking delays.
(Archived fragment.)