A delicate Etruscan vase overflows with vibrant blooms, their petals soft yet electric against the muted background. The flowers seem to pulse with quiet energy, as if holding secrets just beyond reach.
Ophelia floats, pale among the water lilies. Her hair fans out like dark roots, tangled with blossoms. The pond swallows her slowly—petals drift where breath should be. Shakespeare’s drowned girl becomes weightless here, sinking through green shadows into something quieter than sleep.
Soft petals blur into dreamlike hues, floating weightless above the vase. The flowers seem to breathe, their colors shifting between memory and imagination. A quiet tension lingers—are they blooming or fading? The vase anchors them, yet they strain toward something unseen.
A woman’s face emerges from the shadows, her gaze distant yet piercing. Soft hues blur into darkness, as if she’s caught between dream and waking. The portrait lingers—not quite real, not entirely imagined.