Morning haze across the Cuban interior. Silence carries the land.

At a worn table on the main street, he repairs disposable lighters.
In Cuba, where little is taken for granted, people wait patiently—for fire.

No voice speaks here, only the wall.
The words still visible, their meaning quieted. 

A man, a bicycle, and a moment’s escape from the heat.
Sometimes, shade is everything.

Fresh paint, an old face.
The message is clear — but who is it meant for?

Stories of survival,
shelf by shelf.

The years have etched something gentle.
He smiles with what he has.

Colonial air: A façade from another era.
Still standing, still watching.

A fuel station — or a painting in use?
The line blurs.

Green is the backdrop, but color takes the stage.

This is not biobased design.
It’s simply life on an island with limits.

Here, softness is not the absence of struggle,
but its answer.

The past stands firm.
The present hangs by wires.

She looks out — or does the sea look in?
The horizon invites, but doesn’t open.