Origamy

by Rachel Armstrong

Bizarrely, all matter is made up from a variety of stabilised black holes, which look like dust that are particularly drawn to water and reflective surfaces.

The whole garden is a contemplative space – where it’s possible to view reality differently through various lenses. It’s like taking a walk in an endless garden that may equally provoke delight, or anxiety.

While I regard myself as a spacetime weaver, my art must also embrace a kind of natural philosophy that applies to observations of life, so that things I’ve never encountered, or considered before, do not confuse me.

Orange Nazis. They’re trapped in a bouffant hair plug with their enemies and other losers, caked in rot of their own making, swimming around angrily, threatening to make orange walls which they insist are terracotta. They are not. They’re orange.

“You cultivate your hum, like some kind of perverse couture.

“It’s disappointing,” says Stokes. “Couldn’t Andromeda have earned her celestial presence for something more extraordinary than giving birth?” “Birth is extraordinary,” I protest. “Okay, but you know what I mean. Life is extraordinary too, but there’s no Naked Mole Rat constellation.”