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

Close your eyes. You are sitting before a table—a real table, not the imagined one. There is fruit here: dewy strawberries still warm from the sun, grapes, a gleaming crisp apple. A slice of cake, rich with layers of raspberry cream, tilts delicately. A pale green pitcher anchors it all—classical in shape, curved like the neck of a swan, a vessel fit for myth. These are real. Tangible. You could reach out and touch them. But wait. You press a candle into a cupcake’s swirl of

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