Complimentary worldwide shipping on orders over $400 · No import tariffs for most countries

0

Your Cart is Empty

I placed my hand on the stone—not to steady myself, but to listen.  It was cool, textured by centuries of weather and worship.  Apsaras carved across the sanctuary walls tilted in various gestures, but one stilled the morning around her.

She didn’t face me.  Her gaze rested just beyond, where memory slips into myth.  Her hand rose with the gentleness of a blessing that did not require belief.  I felt no need to be seen.  Only received.

Light moved quietly across her collarbone.  Not illumination—recognition.  I crouched low to watch it touch the edge of her braid.

When I eventually exposed the film, I knew I would spend hours drawing out what the stone already understood: shadow is not absence, but a form of grace.


The stone did not speak
but opened a space for listening—
and something entered.

She does not move.
She does not need to.

Each braid is a prayer
coiled in time.

The hand she raises
is not a gesture
but a threshold.

Stand before her
and forget what you thought
was yours to hold.


Also in Library

The Crocodile and the Moon Eel: A Tide-Bargain
The Crocodile and the Moon Eel: A Tide-Bargain

7 min read

A crocodile waits in hush where river bends to moonlight. From the silt, a pearl-lit eel rises, whispering a bargain of scale and tide. What is given is never returned whole: hunger meets silence, storm keeps watch, and the river writes its law in breath.

Read More
Field Note: Blue Hour at Angkor
Field Note: Blue Hour at Angkor

2 min read

The blue hour settles over Angkor like a hush in stone. Naga coils dissolve into shadow, carvings soften into silence, and hunger without teeth endures. A sketch becomes listening. Each fracture is a hymn, each hollow a river. A field note on patience, memory, and the stillness that lingers.

Read More
Red and black chalk sketch of reeds and a single widening ripple on still water.
At the River’s Bend

1 min read

Dusk leans against the bank and the water forgets its hurry. A heron holds one bead of light. In the reeds, someone counts—commas between breaths. The river practises memory; cicadas re-thread a broken necklace. Perhaps art is only this: placing the pause so the note can be heard.

Read More