It's in the quiet places—the shoreline just before dusk, where the air hangs with weight, carrying the scent of salt and distant promises. There, you feel it—the shift of millions of tiny particles shaped by the lunar breath and cosmic tides.
Salt reacts, slides between the grooves of weathered stone, finding its place between cracks where stories age and linger. The wind knows this dance, how to weave through discomfort into a fabric more forgiving. It whispers to the salt, encouraging it to become something more than a mineral memory.
Arrays of endless crystals
dissolve, resolve, devolve
meeting the earth
in immutable grace