ATK/0 DEF/10000
Taka Kono, Taichi Machida, 18virgin
2021-10-15
2021-12-11
Location:
mcg21xoxo
Event Type:
Group Exhibition
Suffering comes to me dressed in white, standing by the door. Its presence casts a long shadow on the floor, stopping just short of my feet. Though there is no reason to panic, I instinctively reach for the bone card. In a strangely deliberate slowness, I feel every movement of my own hand. Then, the dreaded thought grips me: What if it isn’t there? Before this doubt can spiral, my fingertips find the familiar wrinkled pulp.
Here, there are no accidents—only ritual. For now, I am safe again.
After sleep, I linger, trying to recall how the bone card came to be in my possession. It’s a futile exercise—like motion stripped of warmth. I begin to drift toward weightlessness, but soon I encounter the edges of my memory. Closing my eyes, I make a desperate attempt to push one step closer to the mirror of fog. Instantly, nausea seizes me, and a piercing ring floods my senses. My stomach churns as though trying to flee my body. The light fades from my eyes, and the ringing distorts into a sickening drone.
When the elders ascended, they left us nothing but their tools. Some say the strange staves were apotropaic, used during hunting rituals to ward off malicious spirits. Others claim they were weapons themselves. Over time, countless theories have surfaced, only to collapse under their own weight. The only tangible remnants of the staves are the bone cards, harvested from their barbs and ridges. Even the thought of the runes in their original form sends a shiver through me.
Nobody knows how or why the runes work. All we know is that they do. Without them, we’d never sleep. And if we’d never sleep, how else would we endure the ceaseless presence of the drone?
Here, there are no accidents—only ritual. For now, I am safe again.
After sleep, I linger, trying to recall how the bone card came to be in my possession. It’s a futile exercise—like motion stripped of warmth. I begin to drift toward weightlessness, but soon I encounter the edges of my memory. Closing my eyes, I make a desperate attempt to push one step closer to the mirror of fog. Instantly, nausea seizes me, and a piercing ring floods my senses. My stomach churns as though trying to flee my body. The light fades from my eyes, and the ringing distorts into a sickening drone.
When the elders ascended, they left us nothing but their tools. Some say the strange staves were apotropaic, used during hunting rituals to ward off malicious spirits. Others claim they were weapons themselves. Over time, countless theories have surfaced, only to collapse under their own weight. The only tangible remnants of the staves are the bone cards, harvested from their barbs and ridges. Even the thought of the runes in their original form sends a shiver through me.
Nobody knows how or why the runes work. All we know is that they do. Without them, we’d never sleep. And if we’d never sleep, how else would we endure the ceaseless presence of the drone?
