April 2025

April 2025 holds the hour just before sleep gives in. A private room turns theatrical: scale slips, and the ordinary becomes a hovering proposition.

The checkered mass reads as thought made physical, a soft pressure against the ceiling of the day. Muted greens and ash-gray paint keep the scene quiet, but the geometry refuses comfort, insisting on presence, pattern, and the strange intimacy of being awake with your own mind.