The Process

The Graft

The plastic of the Meridian files bites into my palm, a sharp edge that promises structure. The corridor stretches ahead, a tunnel of white panels and humming vents. My shoes click against the linoleum, a rhythm that confirms movement, that confirms a…

The Circular Stamp

The ink was dry before the paper touched the desk. I sat in the vinyl chair, the material stiff and cold against my thighs, watching the empty space opposite me. The room smelled of ozone and old dust. I held the form, a blank sheet of cream-colored stock…