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Artist
Behind the cold steel gates of Heart-Grind Works, love is not felt - it’s processed. Raw, red hearts arrive fresh each day, only to be ground into a useless paste, stripped of meaning, and packed for disposal. No one knows where the hearts come from and how many are processed in a day. Only that the air hangs heavy with the scent of memory, and the walls hum with echoes of what once beat. Here, tenderness is distilled into silence, and feeling slips, unnoticed, into the drains - forgotten...
