Every spring, cherry blossom petals bathe the winter away in my neighborhood. The pale pink that quietly blesses the season is soon torn and scattered by a moment of wind and rain.

Disappearing in a day or two, the image of the blossoms leaves behind the subtlest of evidence. This has expanded into an experiment on the whereabouts of ephemeral beings, along with my desire to chase and preserve them.

Tiny pieces of aluminum that replicate cherry blossoms are scattered across intersections and walkways around the neighborhood. They are observed for four days, but are later lost, leaving behind sporadic, faint marks. 

This is the record of tracing and losing things that are still traveling somewhere in nature, humans, and machines, not knowing where they come from or where they go.

A moment before, there were no blossoms. A moment hence, there will be no blossoms.