March 2025

March 2025 holds a still life at the edge of wilting, where color refuses to leave quietly. A cool, nocturnal ground presses forward, letting small bursts of red and yellow behave like punctuation against the dark.

The bouquet sags, bends, and keeps speaking; the vessel stays steady, a sober anchor for unruly stems. Below, an open page suggests a private record: what was noticed, what was kept, what will fade anyway.