The Gold Underfoot
When I was seven, my grandfather told me that the trees were simply holding their breath until the first frost. We lived near a small patch of woods where the ground would turn into a thick, crunchy carpet of copper and amber every October.…
The Hunger of the Void
It is 3:14 am. The house is holding its breath, and I am staring at the wall, wondering why we spend our days trying to build things that are meant to be destroyed. We stack layers of meaning, of ambition, of routine, just like a child building…
Oriental Room from Diyarbakir by Mehmet Masum SuerThe Echo of Stone
Seneca once remarked that we are like travelers who, in our haste to reach the end of the road, fail to notice the beauty of the inns along the way. We treat the world as a mere corridor to be traversed, forgetting that the structures we inhabit…