Original artwork description:

The sun hangs like a dusty lampshade, no longer warming but tinting the flower stems a pale yellow. In the glass, liquid sunlight is trapped. Drink, and your throat will burn with that very evening when you laughed, not knowing it was forever. When daisies were not a decoration for loneliness, but a wreath in her hair.
Now they stand in a jar. Their heads are bowed as if listening to the silence. Laughter drowns in it. Voices dissolve. All that remains is this slow, viscous light crawling across the tablecloth, trying to reach you.
Nostalgia is a dangerous drink. The first sip is warmth. The second is bitter truth. The third is the realization that nothing can ever be returned. That these daisies will never again smell of her perfume.
You raise the glass. Outside the window, the last stripe of light fades. The room is almost night. And only the white petals of the daisies glow in the dark, like tiny moons in a black sky. They do not remind you of her. They remind you of yourself — of the one who once believed that flowers and vodka on the table were only for celebrations.
The sun in the glass goes out. At the bottom remains only the bitter taste of a departed day and a slight burn on the lips — the seal of this evening, this solitude, these daisies that will stand here tomorrow when the sun comes again to color them.
Everything repeats. Only with each such evening you become a little more transparent. The pattern of shadows already shows through you. Soon, all that will remain of you is this evening ritual: the daisies, and the memory that aches quieter each time. Until it stops aching altogether.

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