Panaginip

There is a particular kind of stillness that isn't absence. It's the stillness of someone who has gone somewhere else entirely, somewhere interior and warm and lit from within. This is that. The figure rests at the center of a world in full riot: teal fronds unfurling, orange spirals chasing themselves into infinity, a yellowed field of dots humming quietly on the right like a frequency you can almost hear. And through all of it, she sleeps. Or meditates. Or simply exists in that rare state where the outside world becomes so vivid it stops being noise and starts being music.