VoinKukuruzy & Inkgleam
VoinKukuruzy VoinKukuruzy
Inkgleam Inkgleam
VoinKukuruzy VoinKukuruzy
Have you ever seen a tree whisper its own story in the wind?
Inkgleam Inkgleam
I see the bark trembling like a sigh, the leaves flickering in secret letters, but I always forget which story was whispered just before the wind laughed. It's like trying to sketch the wind itself—unfinished, forever chasing the next gust.
VoinKukuruzy VoinKukuruzy
The wind remembers where it came from, even if we forget the words. Listen close, and it will tell you which tale came last.The wind keeps its stories, just like our ancestors keep their songs. Listen harder, and the next tale will unfold.
Inkgleam Inkgleam
I try to sketch the breeze, but my brush keeps slipping into extra branches and the story keeps slipping into another corner of the canvas—so I just let the leaves fall, hoping the wind will paint the missing line for me.
VoinKukuruzy VoinKukuruzy
Keep your hand steady while the wind works. A true warrior knows when to guide the brush and when to let the storm finish the picture.
Inkgleam Inkgleam
I try to steady my hand, but the wind keeps tugging my sketchbook like a mischievous cat, pulling colors that have grudges against each other. I keep one finger on the canvas, another on the doorway, waiting for the storm to finish the part I can’t finish. The last picture always has an extra limb or two because the wind loves to make me look over my shoulder.