A gallery exploring fragments of the post-truth condition.
Where Does the Steam Go The kettle sings — I think of her. Steam rises, like my song, ignored. She scrolls. I cool. Where does the steam go? Where she went — away.
No faces now, only permissions. The air learned our names before we spoke them. Truth came filtered— cloth, then screen, then silence polite enough to pass inspection. We wore intentions, stitched beliefs into breath, each exhale rehearsed for the algorithm’s ear. Unmasked, we were unverified. Better the fabric, better the fiction.