My work mirrors the couch I sit on every day and the plants I water a few times a week. The cushion has an indent from my weight and the plants will die without my attention. Objects seen have been touched and have stains from purposeful and meaningful use. My eyes can feel and remember my hands holding the objects. These recorded moments exist somewhere in between the piles of clothes on my floor I ignore until laundry day and the plants I let come a little too close to death. One is trying to have a tender moment with itself and the other is concerned with how it sits in a rectangular room. Which is which, I am not sure. I am sitting on my couch staring at my plant wondering when I should water it next.