Even insects, it seems, need someone to talk to.

Somewhere between dusk and the infinite, a creature of compound eyes and trembling wings brings its sorrows to a man with a notepad, the stars outside witnessing what no flower or rotting fruit ever could. The room holds its breath in grey pencil lines, the tissue box on the floor a quiet monument to grief that has no name in any human language. A toad watches from the window, patient and enormous, as though it has always known it would outlast every marriage.

Jul 4, 2026

this image sits 4.6 bits from the center of the collection