The only source of light illuminating the flowers is the neon sign on the shop window. One can see their various forms/shapes/faces, although under the sign of the word “flower” [گل], it’s as if their true color has been completely erased/wiped away and uniformly turns to red.

The nature of the unity of the flowers behind the window is that something must be lost, polished/sanded down enough until it can ultimately align. Perhaps this is the essence of being reduced under one element, and that’s why sometimes I hate words. There are things that fall into the cracks of words; no matter what you say, you don’t reach them, and you get frustrated by not being able to convey them. Sometimes you resort to multiple equivalents for a single word to experience a small touch of that meaning, but there are always blind spots that never become words; just like the strange feeling of this picture.