An inkblot figure works at its smeared machine — the photocopy of a memory, not the memory.

A lone walker approaches a grey church tower under weather that has outlasted the faith.

Two horror patriarchs surface through autumn light, the old monsters bleeding into the garden.

Sprigs of a houseplant against a peach wall — the film resting for one breath on stillness.

Rose-grey fog absorbs the treetops, the world exhaled rather than photographed.

In a gold-fired garden a dog holds its post between a vintage pram and a red bucket.

A proboscis monkey sits among stumps on cracked earth, elder statesman of a ruined parliament.

At a cold window a mannequin head keeps watch, red gathering at the edge of the room.

A woman’s face drowned in red light, her frown the only line the colour cannot flood.