A ferny-feathered blue roller, streaming upwards, transforms a dusty brown study of books and analytical devices, precisely but incoherently arrayed out of perspective of table-top context, past claustrophobic, tar-spotted sycamore woodland, into an eternal quest for belonging. Bookshelves become rock strata whose caves have protected ancient scrolls through ages riven by the pain of conflicting aspirations. A sun, the magnification of hidden powdery mildew fruit bodies on the underside of green-blotched leaves casts its beauty into the eye of the beholder.
