Sketch a memory, a fleeting notion. In the quiet hours before dawn, the mind wanders. Ideas take shape on the fringes of responsibility, like ephemeral sketches in the sand. Perhaps a house with a crooked chimney. A garden full of invisible roses.
Life's marginalia—notes left unfinished at the daybreak edge, wine-stained musings of what could have been. Imagine walking down a street, catching glimpses of worlds hidden in the outlines of clouds. Each silhouette holds a story; each story threads together a tapestry of choice and chance.