The opened drawer of a nightstand, reminiscent of a motel, reveals a bible submerged in honey, its pages turned to the passages on time and change in Ecclesiastes. But here The Words purpose under heaven is subdued by time itselfand, with it, all our expectations about books and their reading. The viscous liquid ages and gathers dirt, dust, hair, and insects. Eventually the bible drowns in its own sweetness and is obscured from the viewer's gaze, its time to speak having surrendered to silence as it is feasted upon by foreign organisms rather than the readers eye. Now the viewer can smell the aromatic bouquet but cannot savor the words; the amber substance has irreverently archived and finally effaced this potent cultural icon.