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The gallery does not speak; it listens.  Dust hangs mid-air, undecided between settling and flight.  I stand near the Buddha, carved and attentive, as first light drifts down the corridor like a slow exhalation.  Nothing hastens.  Silence thickens—not lack, but fullness waiting to reveal its own timbre.

Without thought the composition arranges itself.  Exposure becomes prayer offered through stillness rather than gesture.  In the latent silver of the negative, quiet gathers, coiling for a sound that will never break.


The corridor tires of echo,
night’s last shadow loosens from the lintel,
and a single ripple of light
rests on the naga’s brow—
as though silence has chosen a mouth
through which to breathe.

Behind closed lids
an unmoving river turns;
each grain of stone repeats
its vow to cradle the world
without possessing it.


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Where light lingers, time kneels. The world waits to be seen — not taken, but received.
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In the hush of the galleries, the sculptor listens rather than strikes.
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