№ 02 — Rushit Shah, works

At the edges you can name them. Gold. Green beneath the gold. A blue. The bare ground. Each line has travelled far enough to become one thing. Follow any of them inward. They draw closer. They overlap. They stop being separate. At the centre you cannot name a single colour, because none of them has left yet. This is not absence. It is everything, before it agreed to be different things. You were taught to look for yourself out here, among the names. You began in there, before any of them.
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