The Weight of Stillness
The particular grey of a late February afternoon, when the frost has begun to lose its grip but the ground remains too hard to yield, carries a specific kind of silence. It is not the empty silence of a room, but a heavy, expectant stillness…
The Echo of Empty Pavements
I often find myself thinking about the rhythm of a city when the heartbeat stops. There is a particular street in Bochum, or perhaps it is just a street in my own memory, where the cobblestones usually hum with the friction of hurried lives.…
Here’s Looking at You by Martin MeyerThe Weight of the Small
I remember the blue ceramic bowl that sat on my grandmother’s kitchen counter for twenty years. It was never empty; it held loose change, keys, and the occasional dried petal from a garden that no longer exists. When she died, the bowl remained,…