While traveling in Vietnam, I came across a quiet scene outside a historic post office in Saigon. The night guard had fallen asleep at his post, shoes off, a half-finished coffee cooling beside him, as a large portrait of Ho Chi Minh looked on from behind.
Poetic text written during my literature workshops:
The tiles were a burning stove below his feet. The humidity was the lid that covered him from above. Even the gaze of Ho Chi Minh couldn’t stop him. The security guard at the post office floated in his fifth dream while the honks tucked him in, and his coffee cooled down on the blue plastic chair. ✉️🏤👮♂️💤 ☕️
Moments like this draw me in, ordinary fragments of life that hold rhythm and story. I’m drawn to observing small, real details and translating them into visual narratives that balance documentary truth with atmosphere. This particular scene also inspired me to write the short text below, a few lines that became part of the illustration itself.