"The living things I’ve killed stay with me, softly, faintly, circling the edges of my memory. Like the moss-ball slowly collapsing on my kitchen windowsill. Two years ago, at the Korean Thanksgiving Art Market held by KTB in Berlin, I bought a moss-ball from an artist called Independent Garden. It was small and round, with a single green sprout poking out, something like a mossy companion. I’ve always loved moss. I took care of it gently, sprayed it with water, gave it enough light. But during a month-long trip to Korea, it dried up. The green withered. The sprout turned white and brittle. It’s been two years, and I still water it every day. Now the soil has started to collapse, and the ball is losing its shape. I can’t throw it away. Not because I’m clinging to its past life, but because the entire timeline of its being, from lush and vibrant to dried and decomposing, has compressed into one solid point. One body. I see all of it at once.Somewhere beyond a frost-covered windowpane, in the corner of my vision, inside the white mold clinging to a crumbling mound of earth, that green moss-ball still exists, painfully vivid."