A man, that animal which shapes its environment, which also shapes its brain. A fog, a bit harder than the air – the dust of stones. A hexagonal structure, like a monolith of which one dare not ask questions. Two hundred kilometres from Beijing I found a sculpture factory where men lived amidst rocks that were waiting to be broken, cut, polished. The same gestures come back again and again to write a history of deterioration and repair. This history is obliterated in the making of monuments. With the wind that inexorably scatters the traces of these actions.
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