A road pulls inward between gold canopies toward a pale church set under a crimson sky. Watercolor sits in dense, velvety layers, so trees read as textured blocks and the avenue becomes a single, directional plane. The sky’s stacked reds compress depth, pushing architecture and foliage forward into the same register. The title evokes the idiom where sky and earth meet at the horizon, an image of distance and longing that here becomes a fixed, central vanishing point. The scene draws on Tbilisi in autumn, when boulevards line with yellow leaves, and on Georgian ecclesiastical silhouettes with their tapering volumes and conical roofs. These references situate the work without literal specificity.