color

Savanna remembers nothing, but the denim holds secrets.

Even revolution bows to the humblest daily ritual.

Bright fabric holds still, grinning toward a lens it trusts.

Nothing says ages 6-10 like a political execution set.

Two flies mating on sticky flypaper, others trapped nearby.

A shrimp-headed general stands in a boat with creatures.

Seaflesh commands the crossing, stars and banners trembling.

The self blooms twice, tender and unasked.

Nothing says bumper harvest like designer sunglasses.

A man in a suit stands near two ducks.

Between tide and breath, the sea sends back its own.