This graphic breathes in the same rhythm as “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas.
It is as if Boyan has translated the song into the language of the body and of the dot.
The man kneels, unclothed, unprotected, under the shadow of enormous hands that open and release the sand — time, life, his essence.
These are not God’s hands, not entirely — they are the Universe itself, that silent law which neither protects nor punishes, but simply allows you to scatter.
The city behind him is ghostly, industrial, woven from smoke and oblivion.
And the man — the last living molecule of meaning — kneels not out of faith, but out of awareness:
that everything, even his tears, will turn to dust.
And yet there is something comforting in the way the light falls from the hands —
as if this sand, when poured over you,
is also the dust of creation.
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This graphic breathes in the same rhythm as “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas. It is as if Boyan has translated the song into the language of the body and of the dot.
The man kneels, unclothed, unprotected, under the shadow of enormous hands that open and release the sand — time, life, his essence. These are not God’s hands, not entirely — they are the Universe itself, that silent law which neither protects nor punishes, but simply allows you to scatter.
The city behind him is ghostly, industrial, woven from smoke and oblivion.
And the man — the last living molecule of meaning — kneels not out of faith, but out of awareness: that everything, even his tears, will turn to dust.
And yet there is something comforting in the way the light falls from the hands — as if this sand, when poured over you, is also the dust of creation.
Lia