Dag Terje Filip Endresen, "Entrance to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, seen the day after its opening," 2008
Between waking and sleeping, I float in some indeterminate place, catch glimpses of myself through dream-crusted eyes; find myself there in the Bardo of Napping as the ghosts of cold milk, warm cookies whisper, “Lie down, hush, go to sleep now.” It seems I’ve caught a cold. I sneeze in triplicate until I’m elsewhere, visit unfinished landscapes where scrubby low trees smell like sarsaparilla and the flowers bleed red. There, I’m riding a seed that’s hoisted by ants who pass me from one to another, myrmechorial dancers sending me and theirs on towards the cache: a new Bardo, the Bardo of Seed-Banks. Sleeping again, waking again, unsure if I’m in loamy tunnels or in my own bed until tossed out; falling out of that dream, I place one bare foot, then the other, on the floor. Loose seeds roll beneath my feet, all just aching to sprout.