AOFDIJIDFOIODFOIDFOIDFODIFJFODIJOFIDJOFIDJOIDFJOIFDSJOIFDJOIDFOIDFOIDFJOIFDIOJDFOIFJOIDJFODIJFDOIJDFOIFJDIOJFIODJFDIOJFOIDJOFIDJOIFDJOIFDOIFDIOFDJOIFDJIOFJDOIJFODIOFIDOIDFOID Two flowers are suspended facing each other, connected by a long green tube — at once a flower stem, an electrical cord, and an umbilical cord: structures that sustain and connect. A persistent wavelength runs between the flowers, reacting to sound. The artist and her mother, recorded singing together over a video call, activate the wavelength each time their voices rise. The song begins with a familiar structure, and it fluctuates, overlaps, and warps. Sometimes the distance feels vast, and sometimes it nearly vanishes. It is insistence to sing the same song across rupture, through static and time difference, is an act of devotion repeated. The song named 童年 (Childhood), taught by the mother, is about longing for the unreachable. To sing it together across the world is to hold that distance inside the melody, and to keep singing anyway.