2022-1004

The sky sings above those who sleep. The wind carries stories no longer spoken aloud. In this northern hush, every tilted cross is a line in a poem written by ancestors — not to be read, but to be felt. Nothing here is gone. Everything waits beneath snow, beneath stars, beneath the turning light.

Light for the Sleeping

Weathered crosses rise from snowdrifts like prayers etched into wind, quietly watching the horizon. This is not just a place of rest — it is a place of return.

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Tony Eetak May 1, 2025
Suspension theory: dreams cling to the tension between the known and the not-yet-touched.

Dew Code

This spiderweb, soaked in dew and backlit by daybreak, could be mistaken for code—strings of logic floating midair.

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Jamie Bell April 23, 2025
Fog doesn’t erase, it distills. What remains in the hush is not absence, but a pause between stories. Trees lean like breathless witnesses, caught in the act of remembering. This isn’t mystery—it’s a threshold. You aren’t lost here; you’re being rewritten.

Early Morning Fog

The forest holds its breath. Morning fog clings to the undergrowth like a held memory, softening the sharpness of the branches.

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Tony Eetak April 22, 2025
Inside a corridor built for function, time folds. Artists unfurl memory onto tables, turning concrete into ceremony. The space hums—not with commerce, but with return. Every glance, a stitch. Every exchange, a quiet reclamation. What was paused begins again, not as before, but more deeply rooted.

Art on Campus

Inside a corridor built for function, time folds. Artists unfurl memory onto tables, turning concrete into ceremony.

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Tony Eetak March 28, 2025