Beauty has never been a matter of perfection. It lives in the pause before movement, in the breath of light over stone, in the silence that follows creation.

True beauty cannot be possessed or explained — it can only be felt, for a fleeting instant, when harmony and imperfection coexist in delicate balance.

It is timeless and fragile, carved not by hands, but by patience. It belongs to those who know how to look, and to recognize the moment when form becomes emotion.

Beauty does not seek attention. It reveals itself quietly — to those who are still enough to see it.