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The stones were still wet with night.  They held a softness I had never seen before—a sheen that belonged more to breath than to matter.  No footstep.  No echo.  I crossed the western gopura in darkness and entered into a world that had not yet begun.

Ahead, the naga balustrades curved into shadow like the spines of ancient prayers.  The towers of Angkor Wat had not yet risen—they were simply waiting, unnamed.  And I, too, found myself suspended.  The world behind me had slipped away.  What lay ahead had not taken form.

There was no need to compose.  I did not reach for the camera immediately.  I waited until my breath slowed, until my presence thinned enough to vanish into the silence of stone.  The moment was complete long before I touched the shutter.

clouds drift above stone
the gods wait without speaking—
light has no name yet

I unfolded the bellows of the large format camera not to take something, but to honour what had been given.  Each movement was deliberate.  Each gesture carried the weight of stillness.  I did not photograph the temple—I stood at the edge of becoming, and received it.


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