These four works are not diagrams. They are confessions—curved, coded, and quietly volatile. Each line loops like a whispered secret, each orbit a ritual of return. Teal and rust, black and ember—they don’t harmonize, they haunt. The circles are not planets. They are eyes. Witnesses. Triggers. The compositions suggest motion, yes—but it’s the kind that leaves residue. A memory of impact. A trace of something that almost escaped. This is not abstraction. It’s architecture for the unseen. A choreography of forces that never quite resolve. You don’t look at these pieces. You overhear them.