Dust is made up infinitesimally small collections, flakes of skin drifting down through strata of sunlight. Crumbs. Hair. Micro shards of plastics. It is the strata before the entropy process slides into the imperceptible. In this mulch, organisms thrive, dust mites regurgitate debris into micro doses of energy. Agents of the shadow biosphere linger, instigating new growth. The studio is a drain. It is a point where the fragments of artworks, abandoned sculptures and failed prototypes gather and congeal in a primordial ooze, beginning to reform. The studio is a point to the think about an inaccessible landscape where plastic artefacts sink through ocean strata. To be buried a mile under sediment and crushed into a geological stratum. A parallel universe that does not revolve around the sun. A permanent night garden.