As I child I came across a car accident. I was mesmerized by flashing truck lights and an angel lying on the ground, with staring blank eyes. His long blond hair—lit in concentric rings from a policeman’s flashlight—was spread like a halo around his head. The memory is of a carnival of lights, pooling darkness, and dripping oil-like fluids. Derrida writes that light is a paragon, “one does not see light, but light makes one see.”  Here, white sheets are hung from the ceiling and slump as body covering and body bags: slates wiped clean, walls dividing cultures, genres, history, time and place. The soundtrack is of various vehicle engines, indistinguishable distant murmuring, overlayed with water dripping.