The Geography of Transit
We are all travelers caught in the architecture of the in-between. A window is not merely a frame of glass; it is a thin, fragile membrane separating the self from the vast, unspooling world. When we sit in transit, we exist in a state of suspension,…
The Weight of Being Lost
I found a mitten on the sidewalk this morning, just one, lying palm-up in the slush. It looked so small and out of place, abandoned by someone who probably didn't even realize it was gone until they reached for their pocket and found only cold…
Salt on the Skin
The air before the sun wakes has a specific weight, a damp, velvet thickness that clings to the back of the throat. It tastes of cold salt and the metallic tang of wet sand. I remember standing at the edge of the tide, my toes curling into…