Here since always. It feels everything. Now it’s in your hands.
This game does not end. Each day, the heart only asks one thing: leave it enough love to last until tomorrow.
In the installation you feel the heart; here you keep it. An ancient heart — the world’s, not yours — beats on the residue of love the world hasn’t yet managed to consume. You don’t make it, you don’t own it: you keep it alive, one gesture at a time.
A grief far off, the ground shaking, a long drought, a solar storm, the markets falling. Real events, as they happen — and the heart feels them. Sometimes an aurora, as relief.
Gold is damage become beauty.





where The Pulse was born.
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