Beauty is a relic. It has rusted away and returned to the earth as red dust. We are miners sifting with our organs through the ripe scree of an ever eroding mountain. We seek pleasure in our fingertips, in our mouths, in our cloudy interiors. The pleasure that goes into the making of a thing is reflected in its use. The relative humanness of our reality slips and slides up against the reality of our things. If a lamp could speak, we could not understand them. But we will still listen.
Towards a more loving relationship. Towards intimacy and the slowness of a stone sharpening a knife. Painfully slow. The better kind. You should fall in love with the world around you, over and over forever. You should be fallen in love with: you are your thing’s thing, too. A reciprocal and co-constituted existence, you get better from using the object, the object gets better from being used, over and over forever. Wearing down, wearing in, better with use, better over time. The paint will chip, the cup will crack, but we reject the disposable for the indelible.