Waiver Form from Errata by End States

The illustrations we cut from books and journals and pasted onto walls. Depictions that conspired to meet in the curation of our flaws. Excavated forms. Figures shorn of features. Lead oxidised upon the stone. Another kind of clay to cast us in our broken molds. The shapes of men and mounts in permanent burial shrouds. In vestments of benevolence. A decaying kiln of kin, staring back at nothing. Constrained saints painted into frames as time fans the dying embers of shame. Like devouts at a shrine, just returning to the fold. The floor cupped at the feet of the damned and the bold. These fragments rise, an idol of perfection carved in polished rock. A likeness we cannot sustain, perfection we can never attain.

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