Storage spaces are strange half-way points, full of pieces of different people, conflated. A place to meet a past on borrowed time, a place that swallows all the old versions of you and slowly digests them with dust. It becomes unclear which parts of this archive belong to you and what has folded into someone else. Indistinguishable forms and masses with a name on them, some sunbleached or broken, hold moments that you were only a partial witness to.
