She handed me the wildflowers, and I felt my energy drop beneath my feet. I tried to connect with her, but it was like speaking through a fogged dream. I looked at the flowers and could hardly focus. I fell into another abyss of sickness. My body became a foreign place. Even standing was now too much. I pushed it out of my mind, telling myself I just needed to survive—what I thought would last only a month. Sunlight poured over the flowers on the windowsill, softly pulling my gaze. Leery of the web-covered vase, I studied the flowers, searching for something I could salvage. I felt a nudge—uneasy, but certain. I knew I wanted to photograph them. "How long has it been?" I wondered. Three months? Six? Nearly a year, I realized. I quickly buried the thought, knowing the pain it would cause. Not today, I told myself. Today I feel good enough to take a few photographs. Uneasy, yet curious, I brought the horned flower to the camera. There was something here. As I studied the crumbling form, my mind reeled. I didn’t want to look at the time that had passed—the moments missed, the truths unspoken. The horns. The ethereal petals. Symbols of the myths I had told myself—soothing stories to numb the reality, sending me back into the sleep of sickness. I couldn't remember what this flower had looked like before it dried. Still, I couldn't ignore the pull to capture it—to honor its crumbling, ethereal form. The crumbling stairs of my subconscious, the bricks of myth and superstition beneath my feet, and the gentle, permeating voice calling me to look up... and deeply into my now.