I tell stories from a distance.

I’m drawn to silence, to cold air, to the silhouettes of two people.
My attention lands on where language thins—
the back of someone looking out, bamboo shifting at dusk, the wind pressing on snow.

I move with structure and stillness.
Timing is instinct. Framing, a kind of restraint.
Emotion doesn’t break.
It loops.
It leaves a trace and resets.

I tend to leave things unsaid.
What isn’t shown stays longer.
I don’t resolve.
I wait.