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Artist
The shrine opens like a small confession booth for weather.
Inside, the sky has been framed and given permission to drift.
Clouds keep their appointments badly, which is the only reason they are trusted.
At the bottom sits a radio, brown and patient, tuned between two ideas.
Static comes out carrying the news that nothing urgent is happening.
This is good news.
The radio has learned that prophecy works better when whispered
and usually arrives disguised as a hum.
Above it, a doorway that goes nowhere on purpose.
Behind the arch: distance, softened.
A place where thoughts go when they stop needing names.
On the left panel, gold rises from a pot like a story that refuses applause.
It does not sparkle aggressively.
It lifts the way bread lifts—quietly, while no one is watching.
Somewhere, bacteria are doing the real work,
turning trouble into something heavy enough to keep.
On the right panel, a black cloud organizes itself.
Not birds exactly.
Not insects exactly.
More like a sentence that has decided to move as one word.
It does not threaten the sky.
It practices being together.
At the top, a skull has been promoted to lighthouse.
From its crown, a green line of light—
the color angels supposedly prefer,
though they have never confirmed this.
The skull does not mind.
It has discovered that thinking is easier
once you stop pretending you are solid.
Small saints line the edges doing practical things:
holding tools, watching windows, waiting without instructions.
They are not here to save anyone.
They are here to keep the shelves level.
At the base, a label reads: For Ordinary Miracles.
This is not modesty.
It is accuracy.
Nothing here converts.
Nothing conquers.
Everything listens long enough to be changed a little.
If you stay, the radio will not improve its signal.
The gold will not hurry.
The cloud will not explain itself.
But you may notice—
without ceremony—
that something unnecessary has quietly left the room.
