The yoga studio and those in it are odd, an oddity from the

perspective of the majority. There are four plants not made

from plastic in each corner of the open planned room. Each

stalk is a master in core strength, cantilevering out and

upwards towards the fireball overhead, through the high

pane glassed windows and beyond. The humans who

stretch, arc and bend, focus on breathing, calming their

minds from the fucked-up world outside. Cell phones lie

dormant in the upstairs chamber, silently compiling an

array of self-inflicted notifications for their pets to fulfil on

return. The phone robot is master, and master will conquer

all.

By Corbin Jefferson