Where Do the Lost Words Sleep And perhaps a feeling, a sound, a place, something internal: somewhere I felt was missing, silently. An inner calling, something that once was artistic. A purely conceptual idea my project could not reclaim. It demands a return, a place capable of containing it, waiting without absence. I search for an answer, but nothing remains, disappeared. Even within me, there was nothing. Where did all those memories go? Can I recall them? A simple question from me: where did everything begin, and where is it truly? It carries clear fragments. There is no defined origin or address, some Eastern, some Palestinian fabrics scattered. The stories are gathered, as the fabrics were gathered. I try to reclaim them. I may not be able to stitch the memory together as a plan, manually, yet I did stitch them by hand, with names. No traces remain. A space filled with silence, dense, fragile, soft, yet alive. The place itself becomes a being. The ceiling, the floor, the walls, the entire space covered with fabric, echoing unspoken words. They are soft, left as they were, dry. I did not color them; I left them raw. I sculpted five pieces from plaster with my own hands, placing silence at their core. They are not memories or feelings, not even presences, nor do they represent people. An identity without a voice, without features, without bodies. Their truth stands. Simply… they are there, standing. They are not filled with anything, but the form itself, a mere presence. They conceal nothing, ask for nothing, silently standing, an inner spirit, an echo—a kind of sculpture. I decided to allow the lost words to sleep in peace. And between them and me, at a safe distance, there is no answer. Present, with an open heart, with eyes open, I sit and awaken them. Sometimes, one can hardly believe what is said: that silence speaks.