When I was a child, I believed that everyone except me might be an alien, and that every other being could be a lie.
If I cupped my hands over my ears, I could hear a long, low whooooosh.
Was it a secret transmission meant only for me?
Maybe, like in Men in Black, which I watched on Friday Road Show, my memory had been erased and I was the only one who didn’t know.

Where does consciousness begin?
When was I conditioned to believe that I am me?
Why have I been so certain, all this time, that here is here?

Gatahn-gotohn is the sound of a train.
Chun-chun is the sound of a sparrow.
Shito-shito is the sound of rain.

The countless sounds we share are incredibly useful for communication.
But if we listen carefully enough, perhaps they do not sound the same at all.
There is no reason why gatahn-gotohn could not be gudan-gudan instead.

Perhaps Saran Wrap is actually Sarasorashipu.
Perhaps Jingisukan is really Zunghis-Khaso.
And yet, somehow, we still know that Saran Wrap is there, and that Jingisukan is probably there too.

In my work, I replace parts of things with forms that closely resemble them.
By doing so, I attempt to delay, as long as possible, the moment when perception surpasses cognition and settles into recognition.

What I have seen certainly exists.
But the histories that existed before I was born are known to me only through books and images.
Can I truly say that they existed?
Or have I merely been led to believe that they were there?
The things I have accepted without question—are they really what I think they are?

After all, I did not yet exist.
After all, I have not seen them myself.