The right eye no longer sees depth. What is left is one eye and a world laid flat: light and shadow arriving on a single plane, like ink on a page. For a while I counted this as something lost. Now it is simply how I see.

Before it is named, the world is not yet anything. Photography is the ritual that gives it an outline. Words take over where the outline stops being able to speak.

An old sutra says that we are born alone and die alone, that we come alone and go alone. On the street, that is what I keep meeting. Strangers carried past one another, close enough to touch, for the length of a breath. Because of it, a meeting between two people is rare, and the world is beautiful.

Here I set color aside. What remains is the skeleton, and the words standing next to it.