There's always that window opened when a typhoon strikes—behind it, a sanctum where my father and I reside forever, suspended in time like light caught in rain. When that window opens, I scream. With joy. With distress. Silently. Permission to open that window is all mine.

The Chronodex poster isn’t just a clock; it’s a manifestation of intention. Time moves in circles, not lines, and every wedge invites a conscious choice. I walked Hong Kong’s MTR, letting colour cue decisions, noticing how meaning emerges when attention aligns with place. Penifestation—putting thought to paper—maps the path. Time becomes rhythm, not pressure. And in those quiet intersections, possibility finds you.

Dismantling the Explosives Within. What if we gave everyone—including ourselves—a break? What if we started emptying our egos and dismantling the most combustible material within us?