Beside a wall of sand, a Mountain Dew-patched character of confusing age tells bad jokes to no one. An audience of sculptures stands silently; a giant worm, an effigy to stink bombs, and a puzzle from the 123rd dimension. These statues are bodily in form, idolized jokes constructed from the infrastructural detritus of a city buried by a desert. The metal is reused, concrete is rotten, and sand is hot and mutant. String encrusted by this sand tries to stand and lift. Bows mark points of inter-dimensional intersections. Cookie marks the spot. Mom is missed.
In the distance, a visible suspension of carbon can be seen coming from a camp. Its fire is still glowing but no one’s sure how long it’s been here. There are traces of human and baby energy left to be decoded; a green screened turtleneck, a 4:3 mushroom cloud, and keyframed soft marble car seats. Touching the sand here, it’s ticklish and trying its best not to tell a secret. The fire betrays this intention, emitting a digital language translated through smoke. Fuzzy and looping narrators act as guides through puzzles in the plume. Every Worm Deserves a Mansion is a prediction and a recounting of a sugar-fuelled ascent to the nth dimension.