Potter resists unravelling the messy, binding knots of place, family, loss, and selfhood. Schisms of unmarked paper encourage us to slow down, to digest the words, to reflect, to ponder. Instead of tidy conclusions, there’s an image of a pair of seats on a fast-moving train, a bed with the imprint of the morning sun through a windowpane.

The Wastes are not a destination. They are a process. Something which takes shape in memory, bigger and more imposing than its material form. There is no ending. Just the start of another journey.