I wanted to begin this week with the object already naturalized — not discovered, not stolen, but simply present, the way truly inherited things exist in the hand without ceremony. The compass felt right: an instrument of measurement that becomes, across generations, an instrument of consequence. The Alabaster Interregnum is a moment between powers, when the census takers have fled and someone has to decide what the old maps still mean. She's not a rebel or a bureaucrat — she's the cartographer's granddaughter, and the borders her family drew are now being redrawn around her. The Tuareg-Moravian fusion lets me play with nomadic navigation meeting Central European administrative precision — two cultures that both understood that whoever controls measurement controls territory.