Seeing my flowers through the lovely gloom, I traced their forms — the ones I could see and also the ones I could not see. The light of this room enchants. Fuzzy old lace curtains trap photons, a few that managed to slide even past the Venetian blinds light with delicate glow the flowers in the still life. They fall on the edges of flowers and make reflection off ceramic surfaces and hide in the porous chalk of sea shell invisible. They fail and perish in the lush confusion of invented leaves, jumble of artificial branch on the dark side of the still life.