About the work

The day is a habit, a thick one, like a coat worn year after year until it molds to the shoulders. We shed it reluctantly, sometimes only to find another beneath, just as familiar. This moment is not a shedding, but a slight loosening, the collar unbuttoned, letting in a breath of air that carries the scent of something just past, something almost over. There is a way the light outside, even in its fading, still holds itself apart from the light within. It is not an argument, merely a different kind of insistence, one that understands the necessity of an eventual yielding. That hum, just starting, is not a call to attention but a kind of slow, internal pulse, learning its rhythm for the coming hours.