Out the window, deep fog shrouds the forest behind the house in mystery. Hidden things fade into the distance, obscured by the white diaphanous mist. Each branch, each trunk, each frond of pine needles come into focus anew. Deep grey-brown-black contrasts sharply with the stark white of the clean snow. Almost as though a black and white photograph has become reality. The daylight is obscured by clouds that diffuse and soften the light. On the bookshelf by the heater, worn and well loved dog-eared books sit patiently, waiting to be re-read. Fingers drift along the book spines, stopping above a stark black and white cover. The couch is soft and plush, and time drifts slowly through the day like a boat with the sails down. Pages turning, words churning.

Worked from the bottom up, completely in the round, seamlessly.