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Classis amissa A lost fleet glides across the water without leaving a wake. It no longer belongs entirely to the visible world, and yet it continues to surface: in the ripples, in the inverted shadows, in the images that shatter and reassemble the moment the gaze tries to hold onto them. Reflections are unstable presences. They speak of what is absent, of what once was, of what perhaps exists in other forms: a submerged city, a fallen sky, a memory that does not ask to be recovered, but merely recognised. Contemplating water means slowing down. The shifting surfaces, the fragmented light, the uncertain forms invite the mind to relinquish control and dwell in a deeper calm. It is here that absence becomes vision: not emptiness, but a space open to memory, to the imagination, to