The Breath of High Places
The air at high altitudes has a specific texture, thin and sharp, like cold silk against the back of the throat. I remember the smell of crushed wild thyme under my boots, a scent that clings to the skin long after the sun has dipped behind…
The Color of Memory
I remember a drive through the high plains of Wyoming, somewhere near Laramie, where the sun began to dip and the entire world shifted its tone. My passenger, a woman named Sarah who had spent her life in the city, suddenly fell silent. She…
The Weight of a Voice
We carry our own private worlds in our pockets. A thin wire, a signal, a voice from somewhere else. It is a strange thing to stand in a crowd and yet be entirely elsewhere, tethered to a ghost who speaks from a distance. We are surrounded by…