To live in this hermetic space, behind concrete walls intertwined with hives of data. The imagined boundaries of the material world pierced by the illusion of progress. Like a chameleon or a moth, you merge with your surroundings, wondering if there is some cosmic order that compelled you to assume this guise, if the room is to blame, or your brain. Your memory is the illegitimate child of Photoshop. It fills in images that your eye could not catch, so you will never have to know what was missed, even when it’s gone.