A fossilized compass sits wedged between layers of calcified ink and unyielding geometric slabs, its needle fused with modern alloys. This junction of eras suggests that identity is less a fixed essence than a rhythmic thrumming through basaltic strata. To touch the cool, matte charcoal residue left by previous hands is to feel how much has settled into the earth. The self emerges as a composite architecture, built from these heavy sedimentations of what remains.
