"Another victim of the Blackwater Killer was found dead by a passing jogger early yesterday morning. The victim, Annalise Lorenz, was only—" 

 The rickety television cut to black, leaving the young news reporter unable to complete her sentence, though the solitary man in the room seemed apt to do this for her. "Twenty-three years old," he mumbled, apparently to no one. A smile began to creep across his thin lips,  revealing the crooked set of teeth hidden beneath, and he placed the television remote onto the coffee table situated before him. He then reached for the windbreaker that had been carelessly tossed over the back of a nearby kitchen chair. After all, the single bedroom apartment he occupied was cramped; the kitchen and living space were only a few metres apart, and therefore accessing the TV from his dining table was a simple task. As well, walking a few paces was all that was necessary for him to reach his front entrance, where an umbrella flopped toward the gritty tiled floor, along with an assortment of footwear. These included a pair of muddied sneakers, and next to them, newly shined Oxfords. 

screeching container ports, fairy armadillos, advantageous appendages…

Coming in from a bright sunny afternoon, I am temporarily blinded upon entering the Western Front’s dim gallery. Somewhat ironically, I have to rely on my other senses to locate the leather-covered bench facing the two-channel video installation of Cirrus (2025) by Holly Márie Parnell. The work by the Irish-Canadian filmmaker takes its name from slender appendages used by animals to navigate without sight—like moles, who use cirrus to traverse subsurface landscapes.