At the top of the piece, a fragment of handwriting holds everything together… and threatens to undo it. The poem, written by Honey’s mother before she died and physically torn from her actual journal, sits inside the collage as both relic and offering. It’s a quiet noticing of beauty in a world rushing past, and its presence becomes an invocation, a prayer, and a wound.

Below it, Honey reimagines John Singleton Copley’s The Three Youngest Daughters of George III (1785), a painting that contrasted idyllic childhood with the quiet confinement of royal duty. Honey keeps that tension but pours her own childhood into it. The three young girls become stand-ins for Honey and her two little sisters… dressed in sweetness, framed in innocence… unaware of how quickly the world would tilt beneath them.

In Copley’s time, the princesses were hemmed in by the expectations of monarchy. In Honey’s reframing, the constraints are different but no less real: the death of their mother, the sexual trauma already shadowing the family, and the sudden rupture that ended the version of childhood they were supposed to have. Honey appears as the eldest with horns, not leading her sisters into the fracture, but bracing against it… trying to shield them as everything begins to split.

The torn horizon reveals a new landscape… an orange, horizon-burnt cityscape blurred by distance. It marks the moment innocence gives way to survival, the threshold where childhood ends not by choice but by circumstance.

Threaded through the scene, the striped tentacles reach in and wrap around the girls. They are Honey as she is now… grown, self-aware, fierce. The tentacles don’t rescue or erase what’s happened… they simply hold. They witness. They refuse to let her sisters fall through the cracks of the past.

Above Honey’s figure, a ring of illusion paper forms a kind of surreal halo… a signal that the eldest child was the first to sense that something beneath the surface was wrong. In Honey’s visual language, illusion paper always means pay attention… things are not what they seem. Placed only above her, it becomes a mark of unwanted awareness… the moment she perceived the fracture long before anyone said it aloud. It’s not a symbol of sainthood but of vigilance and the burden of the one who notices.

In the sun is kissing the frost, surrealist theater becomes a form of remembering. A mother’s handwriting, a ruptured pastoral, three sisters on the brink of a future they never asked for. The sun is kissing the frost… softly… and nobody notices. Except her.