Journal

There is a specific vertigo in walking streets you memorised years ago, only to find the geography intact but the meaning drained out of it — every corner a ghost sign for a feeling you can no longer produce on demand.

At 3,400 metres, before the sun clears the ridge, there is a quality of silence that seems to pre-date human language. I tried to write it down. These are the failures.

A small experiment in managed deprivation that turned into something else entirely — a rediscovery of the texture of an uninterrupted hour.