Reflections

November 17, 2010

At a certain height, the air forgets how to hold warmth. The trees stop their climb, leaving only stone and the memory...

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November 16, 2010

In the nineteenth century, naturalists often spoke of the ‘blue hour’ as a time when the world seemed to hold its breath,...

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November 16, 2010

The smell of a freshly sharpened pencil is the smell of a promise. It is cedar shavings and sharp, metallic dust, a...

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