Connections in suspended atmospheres (tempera and wax on Bristol paper), the angles of the routes become a story, solitary stories in a tangle of lines, all singular and unrepeatable. One moment after another, going is interwoven in many ways, and it is strange, we do not distinguish if the lines go up or down, whether on the right or on the left. The senses follow the path without definition, a movement in the balance, a directional suggestion between ascending and descending. Where's the top where's the bottom?