I could not read the answers anywhere, nor force a finality. I did not make an emulation of another thing. At the very least I emulated a memory I cannot consciously explore. Something meaningful inside me, and there I feel around in the dark. Art is perhaps the process of seeing yourself blindly and using your hands to accept blindness. I use my hands to describe the shape of my contents. I construct another self (an artwork) through emulating a fleeting, malleable thought — a parallel world in some way — a life.  Something dead in there. It is a reanimation at No.27.