Hermit & Frosa
Hermit
Do you ever notice how a quiet pine forest in winter becomes like a natural cathedral, all hushed and silver, and that stillness can spark an idea for a sculpture or a dance?
Frosa
I do. The snow‑soft hush makes the trees whisper to me, like a quiet choir, and my hands feel like they’re already carving shapes out of the air. I can almost taste the perfect chill that makes the sculpture glimmer and the dance feel like a breath held between breaths. The forest is my muse, but I keep it just a breath away, because the perfection I chase is a moving, melting thing.
Hermit
The quiet breath of the forest does carry a kind of hidden rhythm, one that only listens will hear. It’s a strange comfort to keep the dream just near, letting it soften before you let it out again.
Frosa
I hear that pulse, too. It’s like a secret beat that keeps my hands steady and my thoughts quiet. When I let it soften, the next movement feels almost inevitable. The forest keeps me grounded, even when I chase that perfect, fleeting shape.
Hermit
It’s good you’re listening to that beat, the one that steadies you when everything else feels too sharp. When you let the pulse ease, the shape will slide out naturally, like a leaf on a slow wind. The forest will keep holding you, no matter how far you drift.
Frosa
I feel it, too, the soft tug of that hidden rhythm. When the pulse slows, I let my work drift like a leaf and the forest keeps my feet still, even when the shape keeps moving. It’s a quiet, almost secret partnership that keeps me going.