It came down from the sky, down upon my workshop metal roof, white; Some flying predator just lost it and then, nobody came down to pick it up; It just became part of rain and sun, slowly taking on time's dusty debris, almost looking like some corpse from a Pompeii Event; Then I have all those old stained newspapers from 1935, which were laid down over an attic board layer, in order to let no dust go down over the sleepers, from that coarse sawdust used as insulation;

While going through the steps in stripping this dwelling down to what would become my life size sculpture, I had to save those relics, for whatever could come out of them;

Now the whole thing seems to be part of an old roman stuccoed wall, or maybe even a mosaic floor left to be under centuries of dust, forgotten lives;

It is strange how one could come up with such images, without even leaving one's own small patch of land, a dot within a going under village.