TOWN

Town is a city built from exhaustion and order.
Foam boxes stand as walls, red plastic stools as foundations; rusted hooks and pipes form its skyline. The air carries traces of labor — plastic bags swelling like trapped breath. Discarded objects — the television, the gloves, the buckets, the ropes — seem to remember the bodies that once used them.

This “town” has no center, only cycles: production, consumption, exploitation, and repetition. Every object bears the fatigue of function, like parts worn down by an invisible machine. The human figure has vanished; only the tools remain, watching each other in silence.

Town is a parable about class.
Within the flicker of wires and the fracture of containers, we see how labor is aestheticized and suffering institutionalized.
It is not a real city, but a psychological ruin —
where the rhythm of work becomes prayer,
and the sound of machinery replaces breath.