A number scribbled above another number is like a hand covering one ear while the other hand lights the fuse. A cherry blossom that has lost one notched petal marrying a cherry blossom that has lost two notched petals is one whole cherry blossom and two notched petals. Mould spreads from the highest corner, consuming plaster into sprinkles of snow.  A child trying to unravel a ball of yarn is a coil spring is a snowman melting on a picnic table, face pitted, placid as coral. A Yoko Ono show provides liquid graffiti markers so that crowds can colour over everyone else’s doodles, turning the room back to gallery white. One day the child unravelling yarn will be a grown woman, inserting bagel halves into a toaster, suddenly smelling that first kitchen’s metallic blue lampshade crusted with oil.