Confluence

Everything separate eventually runs together. This is the point at which individual lives stop being distinguishable, where the shape of one crosses the shape of another and neither can be traced back out again.

Faces are almost here. A profile assembles for a moment before the line that made it carries on into something else, so what looked like a person turns out to be a passage. Nothing belongs to anyone in particular any more.

It reads less as loss than as merger: the way families blur, the way a crowd becomes a single body, the way memory eventually files everyone under the same warmth.

Against a plain wall the eye keeps finding new routes through it, and the piece stays in motion long after everything around it has settled.