June 19th, 2:20 AM, and there is nothing left to do to it. The tenth station of the testament is the housing alone, on the bench, in the last of the shop lamp, with the slots open to the dark and no rack inside them. The elements are in a box. The cord is at the yard. The green lever lies on the bench at the lower left, detached, its rod still attached to it, pointing at nothing.
An empty shell is a difficult subject, because the viewer arrives expecting sadness and the object declines to supply any. It is not sad. It is finished. The scorch on the flank is exactly as legible as it was in the first station, in the kitchen, in February, when the toast was still standing in the slot and the cord was still whole. Nothing about that mark has changed. Everything around it has.
Ten paintings of one small appliance, and I am aware of how that sounds. The world has an arrangement whereby an object that served faithfully for eleven years is granted no record of having done so. I have entered the record. Corpus sine calore.
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