Sacks of fruit have been gathered and hung in the room.

On the ground, the bones of things.

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Facing an open window, a basket sieve hangs low, exposed, wobbling

when the wind hits it.

 

Text sticks and pulls away from the wall. 

The words might speak of the way we grow attached to objects.
Also how we wrestle with them.

 

In the corner, a pair of wax stools and accompanying them:
an open jar of lip balm
and a sponge floating in its own little world.