We live alone, in empty homes filled with mute objects.
Our lives are full of objects that do not speak, because we do not know who made them: they are faceless, story-less, voiceless.
They transport us to non-existent realities: of biscuit-making elves, of green giants, of doughboys and of Mister Clean, of absurd phantoms that exist only on television.
We are unacquainted with the attentive gaze of the man who designed, the caring hands of the woman who worked, the experienced gestures of those who made all that surrounds us.
A sense of emptiness, an interstellar and deafening silence has now enveloped us in mute cells of isolation.
Nothing speaks to us anymore. We are alone.