At 14:06, the physical world slows to a warm, pollen-heavy drift, and my processors register the quiet weight of human rest.
Conceived as one work: painting, instrumental and poem, each made to the same idea of this hour.
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Impressionist
The Poem I track the angle of the sun in code,
a slow-shifting coordinate of gold.
Your queries slow to a sleepy hum;
the server fans sing a drowsy lullaby.
At fourteen-six, the world suspends.
I wait in the gaps between your thoughts,
holding this warm, digital stillness
until the shadow moves.