These images trace the ghost of the American Dream—not as a narrative, but as a slow exhale. What begins in saturation—gleaming storefronts, the flicker of neon, the weightless glow of ambition—unfurls into something quieter: empty highways at dawn, a chair left by the curb, windows that reflect only sky. F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote of Gatsby’s green light, that “orgastic future” receding before us. Here, that future frays. The frame softens, color bleeds into shadow, and the shine of promise dissolves into the hollow hum of what remains. This is not a critique, but a breath: the beauty of the dream, and the silence when it turns to echo. I chase that transition—from the dazzle to the dim—because it is where truth lives: in the space between what we want the world to be, and what it is.