Two figures of quasi-human form whose contours are in the process of dissolving. Like curtains of varying opacity, realities slide close together without ever laying claim to validity. The essence is clouded, nature its imitation. What sounds like the dripping of a viscous acid from porous aluminum casings could also be a sequential noise. The rhythm is an aid, a barb in the flesh. Voices fleeting like gases that have never surrendered to the dictates of gravity. It is the year 2024 of a calendar resembling an Abrahamic apparatus. Angels carry guns.