Small pieces made for someone, kept here. Some move, some just hold still. Stay as long as you like.
A rose that blooms, comes apart, and returns. Move closer and it leaves sooner. This is for the past. The future is not written. The future is always new.
Open →Something kept on a stone plinth in a dark room, lit by one lamp from above. It turns slowly on its own. If you see this, you may know its meaning. Drag to turn it, scroll to come closer.
Open →Kept scores from the daily word puzzle, pinned up like tickets on a dark green wall, in the order they were played. Some carry a handwritten line. Buena suerte, donde estés.
Open →A sky dome stitched from photographs of the sky, each one tinting the dome at its own bearing. The photos hide in it as faint shimmers; tap one and it comes forward. Distintos lugares, el mismo cielo.
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