The Hum of Passing Time
The smell of damp wool and wet pavement always brings me back to the city at dusk. It is a heavy, metallic scent, like coins pressed against a warm palm. I remember standing on a street corner, the vibration of the ground traveling up through…
The Distance of Light
We are drawn to the glow. It is a primitive instinct, perhaps, to look toward the fire when the night turns cold and the horizon dissolves into nothingness. From a distance, a city is not a place of people or noise. It is merely a collection…
The Weight of Stillness
There is a particular kind of waiting that happens in the cold. It is not the waiting for a train or a letter. It is a suspension of the self. You become a stone, a reed, a shadow against the bank. The world moves around you, indifferent to…