There is a white object, once meant to be sat on, now twisted into a shape without ambition. It might have been a camping chair, if that word still had any meaning in a world where sitting, camping, or relaxing are concepts that exist only in overgrown brochure texts from long-gone times. The chair has not collapsed, because even that would be an action. No, it simply continues to… exist. A steadfast symbol of the persistent nothingness. It stands on a scaffolding that no longer has a function, above what was once a lake but is now mainly a collection of cracks in the earth. Water has evaporated here for centuries, lost its way or left in insult. What remains is mud brick with the texture of forgotten holiday photos: dry, grainy, and no one knows who stood on it. Next to the chair is a beer crate. Empty. Empty for a long time. So empty that it almost seems active, like a statement. The crate looks back at the chair, as if it were not out of concern, but simply because it was once placed there and then everything stopped. There is no meaning, no intention, not even a failed attempt at it. Only this situation: a dialogue between two voiceless objects, with nothing to say, yet stuck together for centuries.