Latex is the ultimate clinical barrier, the essence of sterile calm and insulated certitude. Here it has become its opposite: the sloppy wax puddle at the bottom of a misspent candle. Each puddle is contained by the trace of the guillotine that has ordered them back onto their cardboard rectangles. Somewhere in the universe, somewhere in a New Jersey landfill or in some connoisseur’s arcane collection, there must exist all these trimmings, all these excess curves, all these promiscuous overlaps, all these missing pieces.