Fragments of sentences twist over and under each other and spill out onto the floor.  This is not a cohesive narrative but excerpts of longing, regret, family, remembrances, and promises. Sentences repeat and trail off. There are empty areas, and you wonder if this was a period of silence, was there more to say, did they run out of words, or time?

The writing has been transcribed by hand from letters accumulated over my lifetime. These are scraps of sentences reminiscent of incomplete memories. The ribbons of fabric have been dipped in wax which makes them translucent and crackles the surface. They converge into a twisted, umbilical cord-like rope that encircles and dies into the wrist of a fragmented hand. Bound to the absent letter writer, the hand seems to be gasping, yet is empty.