It’s a truck, but it’s not going anywhere.
Painted pure white like an idealized version of autonomy, the truck is pierced by dozens of vivid red tubes. They spill from its body, dragging across the ground like tangled arteries or data cables—feeding, leeching, binding. This isn’t transportation—it’s a monument to our entanglement.
Once, humans could live off the grid, off the land, outside the system. Now, even “logging off” is a privilege few can afford. From work to identity, every move is tagged, every breath translated into something searchable. Industrialization promised speed and connection—but didn’t mention dependence.
“This truck isn’t hauling goods.
It’s hauling needs.”
The tubes symbolize every interface we can’t unplug from: schedules, feeds, roles, expectations. They look neat, efficient, modern. Until you realize—they’re extracting more than they’re giving.
