As souls are poured into the machine, they mingle with each other until reaching the differentiator. This is a grid of billions of tiny, tiny tubes. Each soul is sucked into only one tube, although it seems that they might have split. At the opening of these tubes they are pressed together, in a plane stretching on for a while. But following the motion of the souls through the tubes, they reach a point where each tube diverges and begins twisting around the other tubes. This occurs until the motion of each tube descends into utter chaos. It is impossible to tell when, or why, or where each tube deposits the soul it contains. At some stage, and in some place, conception occurs and a soul is welded to a small, human body. Although some have tried to find this machine, it is impossible. Still, even if someone was to, by chance, stumble upon it, they would be disappointed to find that the tubes are not navigable. And even if they were, the twists and somersaults of each tube remain inexplicable. Why is one born to a royal succession and another to the task of earning royalty in the slums? The tubes amplify a single voice into a cacophony.

“I gave you a land on which you had not labored and cities that you had not built, and you dwell in them. You eat the fruit of vineyards and olive orchards that you did not plant.”

The wires buzz, and the tubes sing, and each conception shivers with that song. Damaged, fallen, deaf, selective, although we have rearranged the words, one thread should still be accessible. These pictures show my birthplace. They remind me of the places I have seen and symbolise the luxury I have within my grasp. But I am capable of allowing the fog of comfort to stop me from seeing the the valley of death below. While Barn's Bluff and Milford Sound could be an object of pride for me, that voice keeps me from taking my surroundings to be my accomplishments. If the song was to stop, my soul would whistle back to the tube. What can we do with the things we have been given?

Project to be continued…