The Rhythm of the Surface
I remember swimming in the lake behind my grandfather’s house in July. The water was always darker than you expected, thick with silt and the memory of rain. You learn quickly that you cannot fight the water; you have to negotiate with it.…
The Weight of Gravity
I remember a summer in a small town where the heat was so thick it felt like a physical weight on your shoulders. We spent our afternoons at the local municipal pool, a place where the concrete burned your feet and the air smelled of chlorine…
The Architecture of Memory
There is a weight to stone that outlasts the hands that placed it. We build to defy the inevitable, stacking heavy things toward the sky as if height could grant us a reprieve from the earth. When the sun retreats, we light fires to hold back…