Before everything eventually stops functioning, a strange kind of silence gradually expands. I begin to feel restless and uneasy. Perhaps it’s the forgotten places, or maybe it’s the wind, that allows me to shake off some of this anxiety. Despite the scene seeming ready to erupt, it’s a place where desire is either consumed or does the consuming. Fear arises from a state of absolute silence. The body feels like it is slowly being eroded by time and darkness. Shared memories and past decay seem to surface once again.

The angle is the same, the scene is the same, yet everything becomes separated by time. That moment, this moment, the next—all are fragmented. My eyes twitch rapidly; it’s overwhelming. Only by learning to let go, to give up at the right moment, can one endure. Everything else passes in a flash and can never return. It exists only in memory.

The landscape in front of me can only be confirmed in this moment. It’s as if the time machine I’m riding has stopped here. All the former splendor has faded. The beautiful dream is long gone. The regret over what cannot be reclaimed grows heavier. All that remains is time, continuously approaching and eroding everything before my eyes. Time accumulates light just as shadows grow in illusion—both are intangible, yet stand right in front of me.

I press the shutter. Sunlight slowly seeps into the frame. The long exposure becomes another version of myself—not one that explains, but simply allows the viewer to feel the presence of “me.” In this staged space of non-existent light and shadow, I quietly fall into a kind of sleep.