A wall can also be a prayer. Crimson Lattice rises like the carved screens of
ancestral houses, where light was filtered, never refused. Red threads become
brick and blood; bronze and silver bands cross like beams of an old dawn. Behind
this lattice, the body keeps its secrets, and through its openings the world enters
softly. It is architecture made of pulse, a shelter that protects without closing, a
memory that lets itself be seen only in fragments.
