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One can easily waste hours searching for a crevice where hair hides, in clumps or singular strands. I’ve always looked at my hair and we’ve always pushed those feelings aside. Often, hours pass by and hands search behind the wall, under a pillow, in thin lines under old aging wood. When you walk around picking them up, mixing colours and textures together, place them on a mantle. Space becomes time and in the mind of the other, a crevice can become whole.

Postcard colage of womans armpit with the the words 'landscapes have silence, hearing'
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