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The path was familiar, but the hour was not. As I passed beneath the western gate of Angkor Wat, the light turned dense—like honey before it thickens. Everything breathed more slowly. A single apsara stood bathed in that final hush, her body framed by stone flames that did not burn.

She did not reflect the light. She called it home. Her presence did not emerge—it arrived.

I made the exposure quietly. Later, I shaped the image by hand, working in silence, drawing memory into form. Still, she would not hold still. She remained luminous. Untouched. As if no one had ever carved her, and no one ever would.

no hand carved her light—
the stone opened, and she rose
between dusk and breath


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