After the tide withdraws, there is almost no sound. Wooden stakes stand in a slow curve. The mudflat lies with the weight of nothing extra. The sky does not speak. Factories sleep in the distance. Islands float like unfinished thoughts. Everything that belongs here is already here. Nothing more is asked for. Standing alone in a wide quiet I stand alone in this wide quiet. The horizon does not confine me. Solitude does not close a door. Breath still moves inside it. Cloudy, like the sky. Endless, like the sky. Time pauses between the stakes. Only afterimages remain of what has already passed. They do not need to be held. It is enough to stay and listen. What remains after everything has left The wind moves without a name. The water remembers without a sound. This is not the end of a story. It is only what stays when nothing extra is added. Just the stakes. Just the mudflat. Just the quiet that remains. A photograph here is not a record of feeling. It is a way of...