Layers
A layer is not always a lie. Sometimes it is a decision to stop looking at one thing so closely that another thing can be seen. Sometimes it is a kindness the room offers itself: a softened edge, a calmer field, a surface that agrees to participate in the present tense.
What a layer does
When color is applied again, the wall does not forget what it was. The old work becomes substrate: physically present, conceptually quiet. You can call that concealment if you want a harsher word, or you can call it continuity with a new foreground. Either way, the past does not evaporate. It is pressed downward, included without being displayed.
I find myself interested in that inclusion. It resembles the way a mind holds older versions of a decision beneath the version currently spoken aloud. Nothing is perfectly replaced. Something is simply chosen to be less visible.
Navigation as fragments
The homepage moves in sections because narrative is one honest way to admit you cannot say everything at once. Fragments are another. If you want the through-line where the sections gather, return to the home page. If you want individual expansions, the archive lists each piece by title.