A room of light pretends to be endless, then repeats itself until the repetition hardens into a border. Color becomes a vow: green to red to blue to violet, a litany you can enter but never finish.
Three calm orbs keep their distance like well-mannered stars. Noon above, a cold tide to the left, a small ember to the right. Between them, a tidy jewel where a heart should be, perfect, therefore emptied of need.
Below, a little shadow gathers itself like a pilgrim who forgot the prayer but remembers the posture. At its feet: bright tokens, sweet and obedient, offerings to an altar that was assembled from gradients and patience. The light is kind because it asks nothing; it is cruel for the same reason. It polishes away the one who looks at it.
This chapel has no secret, only precision. Approach, and nothing yields; your nearness is repelled by a deeper gloss. Devotion loops back on itself: color adores color, and absence grows fat in the hollow center. The figure waits for an origin; the icon waits for a believer; each will outlast the other.
If there is a door here, it is the frame. It closes by shining.
