Jude Bolt arranges the furniture inside an animal pen and waits for something with hands to agree. He is a landscaper with budding flowers that are soon to bloom and a knife either side. He has been writing and directing for half a decade, no time truly, however his work has been concerned with timidity, false prophets, the soft death of a best friend. Working naturally, adjusting to elements, allowing ideas to form freely, catching them in small jars and leaving them idle until they begin to move. Or die. He chases the image that should not have been born but has arrived anyway, damp and...
