Sara Turing You said: I always seem to want to make things from the thing that’s commonest in nature. Then, out of air, you made a machine. What commonness you’d find if you were here - what shapes and colors would repeat, and at what wild, silent rhythms. Come back, I want the worlds you would have found hiding in this one. The brain’s loop and resistance. Blood, mostly water. Air and electricity. The birch in the yard, dead parts holding living ones together. What would you make out of this now commonest thing: your face, still a child’s, reading the amoeba crawls by changing shape, like a drop of water down a windowpane swimming round to me each morning like the chorus of a hymn.