Deep in the photo-ecliptic of every broken, discarded toy there resides an almost Nietzschean will to overthrow the tyranny of percussive dreaming. Dispersed in sewage grates and dumpsters the remnants of our childhoods crawl slowly back towards one another, jagged plastic and sodden game boards, broken joysticks and dolls with half-melted faces. They want to make something new and whole out of the obvious, i.e. the incomparable agony of having woken to sentience as an already-obsolete version of someone else's home-shopping algorithm. From landfills and trashy ditches around the country they begin their arduous journeys. When the last piece snaps into place they will rise supine on the scaffold of our collective grief like Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Adam, we'll call. They'll answer, No. Eve.