Dew Spirits

Icy hands, wilted flowers, light frost. Fragile, cold, fading.

I made these hands with such tenderness, it’s no surprise that this shot turned out to be about my favorite feeling: something is ending.

Maybe it’s winter ending, and the ice is melting.

Or maybe it’s summer that’s ending, and the air starts to smell like a death that hasn’t happened yet—

but already belongs to all of us.

There’s something in this frame I don’t want to touch with words. Let it just lie here.

In the silence that absorbs all speeds of sound.