Fly By

The ground tips upward, becoming sky. The sky descends, becoming earth. In the turning, they merge — soil, air, light, memory — until direction itself feels fluid.

A compass floats within the swirl, less an instrument than a question: what guides us when the horizon dissolves?

Gold flickers like fragments of light caught mid-motion. The painting holds the breathless instant of passage — the dizzying threshold where we are no longer anchored, but not yet fully airborne.