I would like to bring Anne Carson’s work into the room, from a poem called "Cassandra Float Can". This poem has been one of my touchstones, and has given me guidance and imagery when exploring prophecy, a concept and a practice I was focused on at the time, when I realised I wanted to build an artist cooperative:

Sometimes I feel I spend my whole life rewriting the same page. It is a page with “Essay on Translation" at the top and then quite a few paragraphs of good strong prose. These begin to break down toward the middle of the page. Syntax decays. Perforations appear. By the end there is not much left but a few flakes of language roaming near the margins, looking as if they want to become an art of pure shape. Here is another fact about me. Whenever I am engaged on a translation project I experience continually, offside my vision, a sensation of veils flying up.