Like Smoke, Like Memory II

The figure leans slightly toward the horizon, arms softened at the sides, as if listening to the whisper of the bare earth. The white mask catches the light, not glowing or dull, but simply there, like the face of time itself, pausing between seasons. Flattened with old hay, the wet ground holds echoes of movement and stillness alike. There’s something mythic in the hush: the presence of a faun emerging not from the forest, but from memory. As Gaston Bachelard observed, “The past, too, is a dwelling place.” Here, we dwell.