I am the woman who still looks at the sky as if it were a canvas painted just for me—bold, impossible, alive with a grandeur that refuses to be ignored. While the world claws at my sleeves, demanding hurry and hardness, I tilt my head back and dare the heavens to speak. And they do. In streaks of fire at dusk, in bruised storm clouds gathering like ancient gods, in the quiet blue that stretches so wide it threatens to break my heart open.
I stand beneath that vastness and feel something rise in me—something untamed, something unashamed. The sky does not ask me to shrink. It does not measure me, or question the weight I carry. It simply opens, limitless, and in its openness I remember the part of myself that refuses to be small. I am my parent’s child, your friendly neighborhood merry andrew.

Yours in soft lighting,
Eloi Ahoy