This exhibit resists classification.
It bruises the instruments, leaving
a threshold where witness, wound,
and world converge.
The directive is clear: verify.
Yet time slips in these chambers,
and certain absences carry weight
enough to tilt the field.
Something crossed the perimeter
and refused erasure.
To write it now means
standing in the residue of that crossing,
the hum rising through the floor,
the slight pressure in the skull
marking nearness.
Some archives keep objects.
This one keeps the fracture—
whatever touched the world
and left it changed.
The record ends
at the limit of language.
