Every pocket contains a window opening up into a place. That’s nothing special. Places exist everywhere. This particular place is swings and roundabouts. However much it swirls and sways it’s merely a performance. Beneath, it has come to a halt, and can’t quite remember how. “This place holds no predictions about the future.Yet the resoluteness of a universe in stagnation might cease to unfold just like this.A place rather unstuck in time.Still, it’s a moving breathing place.Soft and slow.In a tiny pocket of its mind exists evolution and extinction. But there is something nuzzled in between.That’s this place.A Möbius stripDoubling up on itself until it becomes a haze.Not quite there. Not quite a vagueness.”Julie Berger Lindh