Possibility is not abstract. It is material — paper, ink, soil, light, voltage. It rests on tables, dries on lines, hums in wires. We collect it the way a botanist collects pressings: patiently, in glassine envelopes, labeled and dated.
The evidence accumulates in the corner of the studio. A diagram on tracing paper. A line of code that almost works. A sentence overheard on the train. None of these objects is, by itself, a future. But arrange them on a long bench and the rooms between them begin to glow.