Breached Module, Noon

You want to know how it holds together? I could show you my hands, but better—look at that joint, there. The module came in as one clean thing; I cut it in three with an angle grinder, then stomped the curve out of true. Every mesh line tries to heal what I broke. But those mirrored shards—see how they wedge the steel open instead? That’s the opposite of closure. The light does what it wants now, bouncing off chrome, throwing shards across whoever walks by. There’s nothing nostalgic about it. You see a barricade you can’t count on—half dismantled, half holding. In Mexico City, a fence comes down and the shortcut is written in bodies, not city plans. This isn’t a memory; it’s present tense. I left the scars on purpose. If you want comfort, don’t look for it in hardware. The form stands because the world demands it does, but it’s always negotiating collapse.