As a child, I was always fascinated by the mystery of how the world came to be. When I asked others, I found myself needing to clarify by saying, ‘No, I mean the very first time.’ I often found myself staring at my own body, contemplating what lay beneath the surface of my skin and bones.

Now, more than two decades later, I still find myself drawn back to those same childhood inquiries. The allure of those fantasies of bone and skin is inexplicably powerful. Whenever I revisit these unanswered questions, I find myself slipping into a strange trance where the world of organs and flesh collapses into a surreal, suspended state. It’s as if there was no predetermined plan or blueprint for creation. I cannot recall a time before this, and I’m left only with these anonymous, decaying organs that seem to have no defined boundaries.

It’s unclear how or why I’ve become hypnotized by these thoughts, but I find that this collapse represents a symbol of a new beginning. It’s a reminder that the origins of the universe and of life itself remain a mystery, waiting to be uncovered and explored.