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The causeway glistened as though the night had just passed through it.  Above, the clouds barely moved.  There was no wind, not even the anticipation of wind—only an immense listening.

The naga balustrades curved ahead, dissolving into mist.  Their rhythm wasn’t architectural—it was liturgical.  Each carved coil echoed something I felt in the chest, not the eyes.  And the towers—still veiled—waited beyond sound.

I paused there for some time.  No need to arrange the world.  It had already arranged me.
The exposure was long.  I imagined it not as an act of photography, but as the breath between one world and the next.

The image emerged slowly, as it had in life.  In the darkroom, the shadows told me where to begin.  I shaped the light with restraint.  Hand-toned each print as though the stones themselves were whispering through silver.


Not all doors are closed.
Some wait in stillness,
not to be opened
but crossed.

Beneath a sky veiled in breath,
the stone recalls
every footfall,
every vow left
unsaid.

The naga curls
into the unseen—
its silence more faithful
than sound.

And I—
not entering,
not leaving—
stand
where light has not yet taken form.


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