A two-day-old puppy searches for his mother's nipple for the first time. The nipple-worm head emerges, hesitates, hides, emerges... in a looped game only it understands. The mother guides the puppy with a moan, nosing him toward her teats. This gesture, it has been proven, is the origin of gravitational fields — the ones that govern the infinite: a drop of dog milk in water, dissolving into a self-contained nano-universe. This is why the sounds of this automaton are cyclical, coming from objects that collapse, and diverge, and collapse. Two billiard balls — two planets — moaning in constant collision and divergence.

With a ball lodged in its beak, an enormous bird perches on the elm. It cannot swallow it or release it because this is a gravitational field converted into an anecdote: a stunned bird staring frankly at my dog. And if you stare at a dog, the dog stares back. You can try, as I did.

The tree is old, Baroque in its scars. It has survived because below, in its roots, an entire world that nobody looks at pulls it, because everything, in the end, is drawn toward everything else.

Elsewhere at midnight, in my self-portrait, I begin to turn into a forest.