I must have a sort of irresistible attraction to the essence of life's chaos. People continuously come and go from between the cracks of the wall, spreading out like a contagious virus. Unable to regain its initial complete appearance, those cracks give way to these accidental or invited guests, creating a brief series of untitled performances. Explanations were never needed. Denial exists at the incident's beginning, at the earliest moment in time, the denial of destiny's ungraspable unknown, and inevitable heartbreak. And so there is no waiting, no memory, no truth. When love circulates, how much blood and tears are needed to exchange for the hollow color of emptiness? The wind that blows through the leaves still yet bring the message of spring, but what is for seen is the winter's sun. When will the children playing games under the tree see their own aged and wrinkled faces? Can a gust of wind catch up to the fading strength and the past? I cannot look past the glass display window covered in strange words to see the faded photograph within, so I can only stand on this side of the glass and observe.