The Body as a Rotting Sculpture
there's no meaning to this, so don't look for one
If you lightly brushed my crust, and a piece of my cracked debris dissipated into the sun-dried soil below, would it make you smile? If you dipped your toes into my mantle, and the heat-washed waves swept you under the surface, would you willingly drown? If you reduced me to my core, and my body dissolved into rippling, unabashed, translucent liquid, would you understand?
Does my fragility please you? Stay. Tell me I’m yours. Wait. Don’t leave. Please. Don’t go. Please stay.
Conservators don’t recreate art, they preserve it. But nothing lasts forever. Even sculptures rot.