A flexible envelope — stockings or fabric — is filled with heterogeneous remnants and wrung with both hands, as if twisting a wet mop. This act of pulling in opposite directions does not seek to impose a form; it draws out the moment just before form collapses. The skin stretches to the point of tearing yet refuses to tear. This state — agonizingly tethered between severance and continuity — is the condition the work seeks to capture. The twisted form is then translated into bronze. Bronze here is not a material of permanence. It functions as a device to preserve the final posture of organic matter destined to decay. The holes penetrating the surface are traces left by my hands — sites where an invisible internal struggle has erupted onto the surface. The work exists not as a finished object, but as the record of a critical point where material, body, and time collided.