The branches are so intricate that together they create a visual distortion that I can stand and watch for hours. The trunks are clear, even sheathed with ivy. The leaves, too, distinct where they hang. But the tips of the dry branches seem to pierce through reality itself from some other plane or dimension just beyond. You can lose yourself, staring into that intricate patchwork, that bends the world as we know it and reveals the wonders that wait underneath every surface. It’s the same pattern-making tendencies, I suppose, that makes people see Mother Mary in a slice of toast… it resides not in the objects being viewed but in the human eye itself. Indeed, friends and neighbours – when it comes to objective reality – you can’t always trust your eyes.