They are always trying to normalise it! Make it normal. Make it normal. Make it normal. It’s like a mantra for the mad. Making things normal seems the goal of modern society and it is so tedious. As if spinning on a ball in the middle of an unexplainable universe is just so – ordinary. Like being made of stardust and having no fucking idea about what happens when you die, is not worth discussing! Life is distraction. Talking online to strangers all the time and living in boxes, paying money to unseen others. Trying not to stand up and shout on a crowded train – nobody loves me! Stay busy. Die quietly. Don’t ask fucking questions. Please. It will be better for you if you don’t. A world where we poison nature and wait until one day it turns around and poisons us back and it will – that is certain – if we keep poking sticks into the planet or taking its oil or polluting its skies or slaughtering its animals in needless ways then one day it will release a pathogen to take us all out. If the first pathogen does not work entirely, it will at least be a warning to quit what we are doing or next time it will take us out for good. It is a waste of human life to not change everything and even more so be walled into the yellow silence of mediocrity. The planet dies whilst humans despair or deny the truth. No. 10 Luckenbooth has a sickness in it that will take all its structures down soon enough and it is only a harbinger of something that will come on a far, far bigger scale one day. She can feel it in her soul as true as a true thing can be. While all these heart-beaters go around experiencing the miracle of existence they are all living on a planet where dots don’t stand up.

Dot wants to stand up!

She is in love with this building.

Japanese Kintsugi is based on the notion that an item is only truly unique when it has broken and been rebuilt. It is then far more beautiful because of its cracks, not despite them – which is why they fill those cracks with gold! Eastern philosophy of aesthetics could better the West. They keep old earthen bowls holding years of oil from fingertips in its grain, memories of time – put them on little dark altars and when candles are lit, gold cracks reveal their truth. If Dot were to pick an ideology, hers would be wabi-sabi. Her life is full of decay and beauty in imperfection. The building called out for a Dot who has also been broken. Perhaps she is the gold it needs. It is ancient as a child. She goes from floor to floor. Room to room, touching all the left things. Dot picks up a mug. She needs another drink right away so she goes through to the kitchen.