Next to my bed there is a string communicating with yours. It is in between the walls, it passes over the roofs, it crosses the ocean to arrive to the other side of the world. Sometimes it makes itself visible by appearing in unexpected places. You said it reminded you of a glitch in the system, as when things that are supposed to be hidden come out to the surface.

Next to my bed there is a string communicating with yours. Is a trace only visible backlighting. It is an ambient soundtrack we are just aware of when it stops. It is a string between thousands, it is something fluid dripping through the holes. It is a net conquering space underneath your feet.

It has been a while since we haven’t seen each other and we can almost no longer recognize us, but you still know it. You know it as when you have a déjà vu. Since some time ago the hidden strings are whispering, and a murmur is coming from the ground:

The things we don’t want to see are holding the world.

If we are all porous bodies, where does your body begin? Where does my body end?

A net. A plural being which does not end in itself, but continues in the other in a multi-species embroglio. A porous installation to overflow a saturated present.

A fluid network to invite us to speculate together, to open space in that obliquely corner from where, maybe, we could breath and recover extended temporalities. From where we could build and fail, recognize our interdependency and touch us from the edges.

Paula Vicente Puiggròs