I’m holding it in my hand. I press it in between the tip of my two fingers, and slightly let it rest against the inside of my palm. I turn it around with my thumb. I feel the edges of the small wooden fibers of its solid, but fragile shape. 

The pressure from the tip makes my skin go inwards like a big crater left from an asteroid. From the bottom of the crated finger rises a long wooden square, solid and with a thickness in the top similar to the one in the bottom. In the very top where the piece meets my hand again, it has a rounded ending, similar to the round shape of a balloon floating towards the sky.

It makes me think of Karl Blossfeldt photographs of plants and flowers in nature. It makes me think of the beauty of a withering flower. It makes me think of CO2 and global warming and burning forests in Canada, far away from my own small life.