The Texture of Waiting
The smell of old stone is distinct; it is cool, damp, and tastes faintly of minerals and long-forgotten rain. When I press my palm against a wall that has stood for a century, I feel the grit of time beneath my skin, a slow, steady vibration…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Geometry of a Sunday
When I was seven, my grandmother would let me help her arrange the fruit on the kitchen table. She had a way of turning a simple bowl of oranges into a landscape, placing the bruised ones at the bottom and the brightest, most perfect skins…
The Quiet Between Breaths
I spent this morning trying to organize my bookshelf, but I ended up just sitting on the floor, reading the spines instead of moving them. It is funny how we think we need to be constantly rearranging our lives to make sense of them. I had…