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A stack of pillows left in a corner, each pressed out of shape by the one above. Inside them something is moving air. The softest thing in the house is the one saying what the room keeps to itself until dark.
Somewhere above, somewhere behind
There is a layer of sound that only comes up once a room has gone quiet. It was always there and it stays inaudible until everything with a purpose in it has finished for the day: a pipe running somewhere for a moment, a fridge starting up on its own schedule, someone crossing a room upstairs, traffic far enough away to have lost its individual cars. None of it is addressed to anyone. None of it is located, only registered. It is what is left of a day once nothing is being done in it, and it is as close as a room gets to intimacy without anything happening. Here it has been grafted into a stack of pillows, which are made to absorb, and do.
