Dead things fall into a million mouths, delicious material to tear apart and recycle, a heap of latent treasures for future shoots, flowers, boughs and antlers. I look at the remnants of art that have fallen, becoming our rich soil, these beautifully disintegrating attempts, brittle soul-leaves dropped from the skeletal limbs of decayed royalty, obsolete aristocracy. Nothing is lost here. The old gods, the great works, the dead dilettantes – their molecules are in your mouth.