They represent nothing, yet they evoke everything. Solid, gentle, organic forms, like fruits of the earth, like mineral thoughts. Each one is a surge of matter.

Not a mountain, but a hill: modest, yet fertile.

Here, glass becomes geological flesh, a surface shaped by slow erosion. It captures the light, refracts it, sometimes absorbs it, never in the same way twice.

One senses embryos, seeds, or worlds in the process of becoming. Or perhaps the opposite: the slow sedimentation of dreams, the quiet accumulation of weight.

A buried memory gradually returning to the surface.