distance
the long way between places.
The road does not hurry. It only asks that you stay with it a while — through the heat, through the flat light of afternoon — until the land starts to speak.
Distance is not emptiness. It is room. Every mile puts something down and picks something else up.
I stop where the light tells me to. The camera is only the excuse I give for standing still.
Somewhere between here and there, the looking becomes the point. The destination was only ever a direction.
