Every project begins as a death. An idea arrives already carrying the weight of what it displaces; the previous iteration, the version that could not survive contact with rigor. The work cycles, the way the mountain circles the seasons that pass through it:
Proposition.
Dissolution.
Return.
Each turn leaving a residue the next one builds from. Nothing discarded is lost; it is buried in the archive until it resurfaces, transfigured inside a form that looks, to anyone arriving late, inevitable.
This is the mythos we build within. What you encounter in its final form is the surface of something that has already been buried in order to arrive here.
