i.
the mirror
a signed and numbered fine art print (5.5 × 8 inches). "noxious orchard of vice." the artwork that shows you the garden you have been watering every day with your own hands — and what it is growing into.
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this one knows what you keep feeding
before you see what is inside
if i asked you right now — close your eyes, be honest, what are you doing in your daily life that you know is ruining it — the answer would come instantly. you would not need to think. you already know. you have always known. the phone before sleep. the food that numbs you. the hours lost to nothing. the habit you swore you would stop last january and it is still here, growing.
you are not ignorant. that is the devastating part. you see the thing. you can name it. you know what it costs you. and tomorrow morning you will water it again. not because you are weak. because the watering has become so ordinary it does not feel like a choice anymore. it feels like tuesday.
there was something you were going to do. the gym. the language. the course. the project. the version of your life that lived in your chest like a promise. and the days passed. and the months passed. and the promise got quieter while the habit got louder. and now it is another year and the orchard you did not mean to plant is taller than you are.
you feel the rope. maybe not as a word, but as a tightness. in your chest. in your mornings. in the way you avoid your own reflection on certain days because the woman looking back knows what you are feeding and she is tired of watching you do it.
and somewhere in you there is a version of yourself who did not water it. who stopped. who let the orchard dry. who walks taller, breathes deeper, lives with an air of love you can barely remember. she is not a fantasy. she is the woman you would have been. and she is still possible. but only if you stop watering.
what if you already know everything you need to know? what if the only thing between you and her is what you keep choosing to feed?
what is inside
no screens. no feeds. paper, wax, and weight.
a signed and numbered fine art print (5.5 × 8 inches). "noxious orchard of vice." the artwork that shows you the garden you have been watering every day with your own hands — and what it is growing into.
the full written body of this edition. the philosophy of the daily watering — how every habit is a seed, every repetition a root, every vice a tree that grows until the rope tightens. and how the orchard dies the moment you stop feeding it.
handwritten. personal. the thing i needed to say to you and could not say any other way.
every month, the Mirror follows you into your silence, to gently stop you mid page and remind you of what matters.
unexpected sealed objects unique to this edition. you will not know what they are until you hold them. that is the point.
your instructions for the opening. the candle. the song. the breath. the order. because you deserve ceremony, not consumption.
a letter, before anything else
someone once told me the definition of hell: on your last day on earth, the person you could have been will meet the person you ended up being.
and every day, you water your orchard.
i did not want to write this edition because i had to stand in my own orchard first. i had to look at every tree i planted with my own hands. every habit i fed. every vice i watered in the dark, knowing it was poison, knowing it was growing, knowing the rope was getting tighter. and i had to admit that no one planted this garden for me. i watered it. every single day. with my own hands.
she is not a character, this woman. she is you. she is me. she is anyone who has ever looked at their life and known — with instant, devastating clarity — exactly what is ruining it. and kept watering.
you see, if i asked you right now to close your eyes and name the thing, you could. instantly. you would not hesitate. maybe it is what you eat. maybe it is the hours on your phone before sleep. maybe it is the attitudes you carry. maybe it is the people you surround yourself with. you asked, and consciously you know. you already know what is keeping you from greater happiness.
but do you change?
no. you keep watering. and the days pass. the months pass. and suddenly another year is gone. what happened with the gym. with the language. with that course. with that promise you made to yourself in january that is now buried under the same habits that buried last january's promise and the one before that. the tree of habit grew. it grew a lot. and the rope is tightening.
this time you feel it. you realize you have to stop. you know it is ruining you. and still you keep succumbing to it. because the watering is not dramatic. that is the trick. the watering is ordinary. it is a scroll. a snack. a glass. a small surrender that weighs nothing in the moment but compounds into a life you did not choose.
and the years go by. each day the orchard grows taller, more rooted. and the rope already cuts your air. and you grumble at life — how can you not grumble when there is a rope around your neck that you tied yourself, one habit at a time.
and on your last day, someone approaches. they look like you. but no. they smile. they stand taller. they walk with an air of love. and you look into their eyes and you understand. that is the person you could have been. but you decided to water your noxious orchard. and with a tear of regret, you leave this world.
i made this edition so that is not how it ends.
because there is another ending. you stop watering. not with willpower. not with discipline. with clarity. with the devastating, liberating recognition that the orchard is yours, which means the drought is yours too. you simply stop feeding the habits you know are killing you. and the orchard — your noxious orchard of vice — dies in the drought. and you live.
inside is a signed and numbered fine art print of "noxious orchard of vice." a manuscript that holds the philosophy of the daily watering — how vice becomes agriculture, how habits become trees, how the rope tightens so slowly you mistake it for normal. and a handwritten letter from me to you, because the woman who is ready to stop watering does not need another screen. she needs something real in her hands. something that is not another vine.
it arrives sealed. by hand. from patagonia. because this edition is the opposite of everything you reach for without thinking. it requires you to stop. to sit. to open slowly. to feel what you have been numbing.
this edition was made for Avalon members. the remaining copies are the last. when they are gone, this edition enters the archive. it does not return. it does not reprint. the orchard was named once. what passes, passes.
so close your eyes. ask the question. you know the answer. you have always known. the only question left is whether you will keep watering — or whether today, right now, you will let the drought begin.
i love you.
— bv
why this will reach you
not "customer." not "subscriber." not the name you wear at work or the one you answer to at home. this envelope arrives addressed to the woman who exists beneath all of that. the one who has been waiting for something to arrive that was actually meant for her.
"noxious orchard of vice" is not decoration. it is a mirror held up to every habit you feed without thinking. place it where you will see it daily — on your nightstand, beside your phone charger, next to the thing you reach for first every morning — and it will ask you: are you watering again?
not advice. not a lecture. not the voice of someone who has never stood in their own orchard. this letter was written by hand, in ink, in silence, from a man in patagonia who looked at his own trees before he wrote a word of this — and who believes the drought is not punishment. it is how the real garden begins.
you know the habit. you know the cost. what you have never had is the language for why you keep watering it anyway. the manuscript of this edition holds that language. the philosophy of vice as agriculture. how every small surrender becomes a root. how the rope tightens so slowly you call it normal. and how the orchard dies — simply, quietly, completely — when you stop feeding it.
this edition was created for Avalon members. it was sealed by hand in patagonia and sent across the world. the remaining copies are the last. there is no second printing. there is no digital version. when the last envelope ships, this edition enters the archive. what you do not claim, the silence keeps.
how to open it
when the envelope arrives, do not tear it open. set it down somewhere. light a candle. scan the ritual card and let the song written for this edition begin. breathe. put the habit down. just for now.
break the seal. take each piece out one at a time. the artwork first. then the manuscript. then the letter. last, the keepsakes. the order matters. the order is the ritual.
you will feel something move in your chest. something you have been watering instead of feeling. do not rush past it. do not reach for the usual thing. let the silence in. the drought is not death. the drought is how the noxious orchard falls and the real garden begins.
from the ones who already opened it
"i opened it alone in my kitchen at midnight. i read the letter and i felt like someone had been watching my entire life and finally decided to tell me it was okay."
"the artwork is on my nightstand. not framed yet. i am not ready to frame it. i am still inside it."
"i have never received something in the mail that made me feel less broken. not fixed. less broken. there is a difference and benjamin knows it."
"my hands were shaking when i opened the envelope. i did not expect that. i did not expect to feel so found."
"i cancelled every subscription i had. this is the only one i kept. because this is the only one that knows my name."
the last copies
a one time edition. no subscription. no commitment. just a sealed envelope with your name on it, carrying the question you already know the answer to and the permission to stop watering.
past edition · signed · numbered · limited
one sealed envelope containing all six pieces. signed, numbered, limited. ships to your door.
€68,95
one time purchase · no subscription · free shipping
limited copies remaining · when they are gone, this edition is archived forever
read both columns honestly.
this is a one time purchase. no subscription. no recurring charge.
you acquire it once. it arrives once. and it stays with you as long as you need it.
plainly
no. this is a single edition, purchased once. there is no recurring billing, no membership required. if you want the monthly experience, avalon membership is available separately.
your envelope ships within 5 business days of your order. sealed and addressed by hand from patagonia.
yes. this edition has already reached 34 countries. wherever you are, it finds you.
a signed and numbered fine art print (5.5 × 8 inches), the full written manuscript of "noxious orchard of vice," a handwritten letter, a book-mark, surprise keepsakes, and a ritual card with a song and opening instructions. six things. all sealed by hand.
yes. this edition was originally created for avalon members. the remaining copies are the last ones that will ever exist. there is no reprint. when they sell out, the edition is archived permanently.
this page is for acquiring the "noxious orchard of vice" edition as a one time purchase. no subscription. no recurring charge. you receive one sealed envelope with all six pieces. joining avalon is a separate membership where you receive a new sealed edition each month. if all you want is this single edition, you are in the right place.
i cannot tell you what it is worth to you. i can tell you that every piece inside was made by hand, signed by hand, sealed by hand in patagonia, and sent with the kind of care that does not scale. i can tell you that the manuscript holds philosophy that took years to live before it could be written. and i can tell you that the woman who opens this envelope will feel the devastating clarity of seeing her own orchard — every tree she watered, every habit she fed, every rope she tightened — and for the first time, she will not feel judged. she will feel seen. whether that is worth the price is something only the woman who already knows the answer can decide.
you already know the answer.
you have always known.
the only thing left is to stop watering
and let the drought do what your willpower never could.
let it die.
this is what remains. and it is yours.
one time purchase · no subscription · free shipping
