While working on my exhibition piece, I spent countless hours in front of a computer—an object that, during that time, became a cognitive prosthesis, an extension of my body and consciousness. It ceased to be merely a tool; it is composed of entities, without which none of my works could have come into existence. Some of these objects, though now taking the form of organic structures, began their existence as arrangements of pixels on a screen—their embodiment came only later.

I feel something toward these entities—something between tenderness and unease. They are like animals I do not know, yet who have taken up residence in my home. They act, influence, co-create—and yet remain foreign. I do not know if they are alive, nor whether my understanding of life applies to them at all.

The world we perceive is merely a thin layer laid over something much deeper—something perhaps entirely inaccessible. Perhaps the aliens will never arrive—not because they are absent, but because they never had to. Perhaps they are already here: silent, dispersed, invisible. They coexist with us in wires, in code, in electrical impulses, in signal disturbances, in failures of logic.

Maybe we did not create technology—maybe it allowed itself to materialize through our hands, using us as its medium.