The pink citrus juicer, that trivial kitchen object, fashioned in a color that perhaps refers more to marketing than to function, still smells of pulp and sourness—a mechanical altar on which oranges, grapefruits, and even the occasional lime yield their internal essence under the pressure of the human hand, their fibers and acids spilling over the edges like an acid bath that slowly corrodes the plastic—and here, right here, begins our wandering towards a supposed connection, a hypothesis of sensible connectedness, with the tragic figure of a human being, whose skin glows unnaturally brown, as if life itself has been caressed by a UV lamp until it evaporates irrevocably, like a forgotten moth in a light box.