A hand-painted animation studio told as one unbroken shot through an autumn city, sewn together by clouds.

A Portland roofer's one-pager whose headline slides shut like a seam over a full-bleed standing-seam roof, with callouts that type themselves onto the photograph when you point at a seam, a statement that fills in letter by letter while four figures roll up like a counter, service cards that clear out of a blur, an accordion walking through the four steps of a job, marker-pinned photographs of finished roofs, and a closing photograph that shrinks from the whole screen into its frame before the request form fades up beside it.

A construction firm's one-pager that opens behind a monogram filling like a gauge while photographs are dealt out like cards, the last one growing out of the deck to become the hero itself, a gallery of concrete and glass turning under five rotating disciplines, project cards that draw themselves open from the top, five process steps that blur away behind a photograph tilting toward your hand, and a single portrait that travels down the team rows to whichever name you point at.

A cinematic fly-through of a glass house that you scrub with the scroll, statement words pinned to its corners, an interior riding up behind a frosted panel, stats counting up on a blurred drum, a star warping out to swallow the screen and a showreel zooming through it — then a footer uncovered like a curtain with its wordmark rising letter by letter.

A specialty coffee house one-pager where a drawn cup fills and pours away to open the page, a bag and cup of beans stand in a lit studio you can grab and spin, four product cards lean toward your hand, an iced latte turns on a clock face as you scroll, coffee beans drift weightless behind a tilted cup, and a thermal printer feeds your receipt out of its slot.

A Formula 1 driver's site where the helmet burns off his portrait as the page loads and comes back only where your cursor has just been, the season's circuit runs a lap when you reach it, and every block after that lands over the last one like a stack of cards.

A Formula 1 driver's site where the helmet burns off his portrait as the page loads and comes back only where your cursor has just been, the season's circuit runs a lap when you reach it, and every block after that lands over the last one like a stack of cards.

A photogrammetry bust on a porcelain stage that burns in as the curtain lifts, dissolves into a live blue fire-field as you scroll, and sends its own wireframe travelling across the screen to assemble a chromed "AI" — before seven photographs fold round a box and the invitation rides up on a tilting blue plane.