The failing seed.
The fractured halo.
A museum of hopeless journeys.

They fall in the autumn, the sycamore seeds. They glide down to a soft landing, or are blown far away in the spirit of adventure – or perhaps they fear falling. There are many reasons for sprouting wings. The journey is often short; if so, they rot in the shadow of their parent tree.

Little halos of smoke, they disintegrate upon contact to end a short moment of purity.

Puff puff

The scent of something burnt in the hazy air at the end of their journey.

Of all the applications and origins of smoke, what use can we find for a smoke-ring?

Nature is rife with improbable beings, and culture with improbable artefacts. Somehow they were given cause to exist. These are my realizations of artefacts which never had cause to exist; my museum of hopeless journeys.