The Silence of High Places
There is a particular kind of quiet that only exists where the air grows thin and the city’s hum finally loses its grip on your pulse. I often find myself craving these edges, those pockets of the world where the earth seems to have exhaled,…
The Skin of the City
I keep a small, rusted skeleton key in a velvet pouch, though I have long since forgotten which door it once opened. It is heavy, cold, and worn smooth by the friction of a hand that no longer exists. There is a strange comfort in holding something…
The Breath Held Under
Winter is a long pause. The earth pulls its blanket tight. It does not want to be disturbed.
We think of cold as an end. A hardening. But look closer at the surface. There is a pulse beneath the glass. A trapped bubble of air, waiting…