In Clarity is a Luxury We Can’t Afford, Alkēbulan crafts a hypnotic meditation on identity, surveillance, and architectural claustrophobia. A single figure drifts in the foreground—unclear, ghostlike, drifting between resolution and absence—while a cascading maze of concrete homes rises behind him like a memory encoded in pastel and poverty. Each unit pulses with quiet narrative: lovers on ledges, solitary thinkers, children mid-play. It’s as if time itself is layered in still vignettes, while the only moving subject—the viewer’s avatar—remains unmoored, nameless, dissolving. This isn’t just an image. It’s a diasporic vertigo. A visual metaphor for those born into displacement, always in motion but never quite arriving. Alkēbulan dares to ask: What does it mean to be seen, when the world only sharpens the background?