At one time there was a pot with some succulents in it. Now the pot is — I love this word — subsumed. It serves no further purpose. Only part of its edge or lip is visible. You can see by the stems that this did not happen over night. The person or tenant who planted this vase may have come and gone, lived and died, but the process continues. Things tangle. Things crowd. But as long as the space isn’t empty, no one bothers with it. It becomes — a word I’ve used many times here — a texture. Infinitely busy, infinitely repetitive.