In my dreams, I try to warn people of an inevitable disaster, but they never believe me. When I wake up, I can never remember my message, only the sensation of impending doom. I think about how the world ends, not in fire or water, but in ash, dust, and silence. When I imagine the end, it is after the dust has settled. I walk through the streets and it's familiar to me but I can't orient myself. It's quiet. I think, “There are supposed to be bells ringing when the world is ending.” My work is most informed by my lack of control. I make many accidents and mistakes. I try to engage with this, rather than ignore it. I’m interested in how materials resist or reshape my intentions, and how my behaviour contributes to transformation. I find a lot of meaning in disruption, where objects defy our expectations of them and behave in ways unfamiliar to us. I sense a presence beneath me, underground, waiting for us to sink into it, to be absorbed. It feels patient. And yet, the end has already come and passed, and I am still here. Sometimes I feel like I’ve turned into an animal– hyper-aware, running from an invisible force. That discomfort is important for my work: the quiet knowledge that something irreversible has already happened.