Long ago—before she wore a crown and ruled the Clockless Tower Kingdom—she was only a girl. A clever, pretty thing with daisies in her hair, who asked too many questions and read too many books. She lived by a river where the current braided itself around smooth stones. One afternoon she followed a Sphynx cat into the woods—furless, affronted, ears like unfurled sails. He led her to the stone skeleton of a chapel that rose from the mountain like a broken fang. The windows

I am only a bird. They think birds don’t understand the affairs of the heart. But I tell you, there are mornings so drenched in secrets which are not meant for the storybooks, that even the sky turns its face away. A goldfinch sees many things from his perch—things that would shrivel the innocence of daisies. That morning was different. The castle stood as it always had: indifferent, stately—its single spire cleaving the gauze of a pearl-colored sky. A bell in the tower rang

There are dream figures who do not come and go like weather. They return. You wake remembering them. Their gaze lingers behind your eyes. For me, it is always the little yellow bird and the masked woman in black. They do not arrive together. One night, the bird lands on a branch just outside my window, glowing like gold leaf under moonlight. Another night, the woman appears in a corridor of half-light, her gaze both fierce and forgiving. She wears a mask shaped like a bird’s

To stand inside the moment captured in this painting is to experience the metaphysical from within the angel's own essence. You are part of the painting and the painter, the sea and the salt, the question and the revelation. You are not visiting a dream. You are the dream, wearing the body of divinity like a second skin. It feels euphoric. There is no gravity here, only grace.The dress you wear is made of silk: green like forest shadows. It catches starlight and flickers opa