In 2020, time melted away, and a week turned into two or
three, with an undefined end on the horizon. I needed a way to mark the days
and have a creative outlet for my restless hands. I gave myself the
unachievable task of condensing tufts of wool into stones. No matter how long I
quietly stabbed the ever-shrinking collection of fibers, it would still give to
the pressure of my squeeze; the surface refused to become smooth. Each day, I
placed a wool pebble on a shelf, a growing line of passing time, an accomplishment
of something arbitrary that could never be what I wanted it to be. When I
stopped making the stones, the new world stopped being strange and new. It was
just the world.