Chisin wraps his books in optimistic pink,
brushes them with a touch of gold,their spines sealed, unreachable to the audience—as if hiding the unbearable truth:the books are devoid of words.

Stacked in a fragile balance,each leans into the next, seeking support yet unable to hold itself.

Uncanny in its honesty,
Chisin lays bare his quiet devastation—the hollowing of human roles,
the disempowerment of the written word.

"The Book Nation"—is it still ours?"

The observer steps closer, circling, searching, unwilling to turn away.
There—maybe, just one step further—does the word still hold?
Does it still shape the world?

What’s left is a storm of chaotic white—a silence that crashes, sharp and unforgiving, straight to the gut.

As if there’s nothing left to say.