TF: I'm not letting you into my house. But anyway, isn't it interesting? All this talk of 'unspoilt islands' on the back of scenic prints: actually all places full of death, carnage. Racial segregation. You can breathe blood oxide in the air if you fixate for that prolonged moment that you always do when you breathe the leaf-enhanced air, and then you fixate on that fixation - and you reveal the blood permeating the sensoric metamorph. Ghostblood. Ancestral cries. The prehistory of modern history: the preceding agreement, the thing signed onto before contact by Western civilization. Foreknowledge of the end. Woven into the reflective seasalt is the death of everyone on these islands, you can smell the nonodor of radiation, impending, where these low lying strips of dead-stuff, absent of vegetation and empty of essence, will take impact by warhead, and again you can reveal this inside the sensoric metamorph, postfixational fixation. You don't even have to take it in being there. You can reveal this in the halftoned or dithered, ink-saving basically, pixels of the print.