Why do we engage in repetitive toil?
Sisyphus is condemned to forever push his boulder uphill. Is his lot also ours? What do we have to show for our worn-out bodies, but an accumulation of stuff bargained for with our time?
Moulded from my own hands, the 41 sets of empty, hard, scratchy ceramic hands act as relics of my energy and a symbol of my 41 years. It is a clinking mound of bones; discarded records of unique fingerprints, meaningless in their multiplicity.
These ceramic hands will far outlast my flesh, created in a desperate attempt to find meaning in our world.