When the World Tilts and the Sun Stays
The sun in this image isn’t rising or setting—it’s slipping. Not across the sky, but down the side of the world. What should anchor us—light, direction, warmth—has come unmoored. It hangs at an angle that feels wrong, not because it’s broken, but because something in the land has quietly shifted while no one was watching.
Light still reaches us, but it’s bent, stretched across the sky like a warning. It doesn’t illuminate so much as reveal what’s been frozen mid-collapse: rooftops bowed under snow, machines buried in white stillness, a street turned stage for something between memory and dream. Everything here is real, but just barely. This is what it looks like when the world forgets how to stand upright.
In the North, we are used to strange light. But this sun doesn’t just mark time—it distorts it. There’s beauty in the warping: the long exposure of a season, the quiet violence of things falling apart at a diagonal. The sun remains, but it no longer guides. It watches.
