The Stillness Between Hooves Set

He never grew up—he simply mastered the art of pausing at the right moment.
The red crochet shirt clings with the quiet insistence of ideology—threaded like an old manifesto, softened by time, its pearl buttons fastened like withheld confessions. He wears it in bed not for comfort, but as a reminder: that even sleep is political when rest is a privilege.

The skirt is satin, but bears the brushstroke memory of saddlery—faint lines tracing reins and brass bits, a mural of control disguised as elegance. Lace veils the slit like an afterthought, or a failed escape. He doesn’t ride. He observes. He knows better than to think every horse wants a rider.

The skateboard rests by the bed. It’s never touched the street. Like him, it performs in curated stillness. A symbol, not a vehicle.
He says he hates institutions, but folds his vintage trousers with military precision. Drinks oat milk as a class critique. Speaks of Marx in tone, not text.

The loafers gleam with deliberate excess. Five pairs, and each one an essay in ambivalence. He doesn’t work, but he dresses like bureaucracy’s favourite son.
He says he dreams of revolution, but always from beneath Italian tailoring.

He lies diagonally on the bed, like punctuation in an unfinished sentence.
Not asleep. Just elsewhere.
Not unsettled. Just rehearsing the part of the boy who never arrives.

Materials- top- hand dyed and hand crocheted, skirt- digitally printed satin with lace.