Keita Takahashi sits alone, six thousand miles from home, in a damp, vacant house set within the grounds of an autumn forest somewhere in the middle of England. He wears a puffer jacket, huddled next to an electric fire for warmth.
With slow, meticulous movements he wraps a length of string around the short, rounded sword he's fashioned from a bent coat hanger. Aside from an intermittent cough, the house is otherwise empty of all noise.
Pastel sketches are spread out on the table around him, pastoral scenes, all browns, yellows and familiar yet unidentifiable rustic blurs. Clutches of green sticky notes punctuate a white board above. On each square of paper a single word is written in all-caps English. Some are verbs: "VIEW", "RUN", "LIE", ROLL". Others are nouns: "HOLE", "TUBE", "GRASS", "SLOPE", like a checklist for creation written into existence by a monosyllabic god.
