A dialogue.
Silent.
Unfinished.
I keep asking questions.
So do you.
That’s enough.
The images,
fragments.
Small.
Rough.
Like notes on a napkin.
No answers here.
No lessons.
Just a pause.
A corner to stand in.
A breath to take.
Each photograph,
a shape for restlessness.
It never fits.
It slips away.
Good.
Ordinary things. A face, a landscape, a staircase.
Nothing special.
Which is the point?
Don’t expect a story.
It isn’t one.
It’s a constellation.
Dots.
Alone.
And still,
they pull toward each other.
In the end?
Nothing grand.
Just an invitation.
Stop.
Sit.
Feel.