Study of a pillow

To draw it was to sit at the edge of dream.

The pillow spoke to me in silence, not as an object but as a soft ghost of what once rested upon it. Its folds were not fabric alone, but the memory of weight, the shadow of breath pressed into its surface.

The pillow does not cling; it remembers gently. It holds absence as though it were presence, shaping hollows that feel tender rather than empty. Each crease seemed like a quiet sigh, a remnant of closeness folded into stillness. In its surrender to vacancy, it became strangely alive.