In times of crisis, I've found that people develop peculiar attachments to wall art. While my sister spent months creating decor from expired credit cards and twist ties, my latest obsession – a medium-sized dahlia in luminous pearl, like moonlight caught and transformed into petals – feels almost sophisticated. "It's like someone captured the essence of an elegant garden party and turned it into ceramic," I explained to my partner, who found me analyzing our wall with the concentration of someone planning an art gallery heist. "Though really, it looks more like what would happen if a socialite became a flower and then decided to retire indoors." The ceramic piece came with a keyhole mount that my mother swears looks like a fancy doorknob when viewed from behind. But there's something perfect about its medium size, like it's struck the ideal balance between wallflower and showoff. I hung it on the wall, replacing a questionable family portrait where everyone had mysteriously closed their eyes at the same moment. The pearlescent dahlia transformed our room from a space where we merely existed into somewhere that felt curated, as if we'd finally graduated from "collecting things that cover wall holes" to "intentional decor decisions." Every time I glance at it, I imagine it's quietly congratulating itself on elevating our sp