top of page

Fluctuat nec mergitur

Wandering along the nooks of the room, my eyes alighted on the pattern of the wood, a humble pine shelf standing by the bedside.
 

On that instant of recognition, that pattern became another speck on the acknowledgement of the background noise.
 

The slow hours ticking, infiltrating my conscience, becoming a companion in the time of the virus.

The invisible has become visible.

bottom of page