Free Shipping On all Orders over $400 · Zero Tariffs for Most Countries

0

Your Cart is Empty

Rain awakens the courtyards before light uncurls from the horizon.  A hush like warm iron rises from laterite, sweet-scented, mineral, oddly tender.  I stand at the foot of Pre Rup’s ancient stair listening for language older than words.  The camera waits closed, its bellows folded like lungs neither emptied nor full.  I inhale the presence gathering here—at once thunderous and whisper-thin—until breath lengthens to match the hush.

A palm frond shivers.  Far above, the five towers hover on the rim of cloud, half-erased, half-revealed, as if the gods had just stirred from meditation.  I feel their attention settle—a weightless gravity drawing every sense inward.  I do nothing.  The moment asks only stillness.

Then, without intention, the shutter opens.  Exposure becomes a form of reverence, not capture.  Mist drifts across the lens.  Rain stipples my back.  Each second stretches, luminous and slow; the stair seems to unclasp itself from time.

Stone towers exhale rain—
morning climbs the silent stair,
gods wake in storm-light.

Afterwards, I close the camera with the care of extinguishing incense.  The towers remain, listening.  I leave quietly, a guest who has glimpsed, for a breath, the interior sky.


Also in My Journal

Stillness in the Shape of Shelter
Stillness in the Shape of Shelter

1 min read

A rain-streaked Buddha sits beneath the coiled naga Muchilinda, not to resist the world, but to hold stillness within it. This meditation reveals a print shaped by breath, not description.

Read More
The Shelter That Remains
The Shelter That Remains

1 min read

Time gathers around the Buddha as breath, not burden. In this haibun, the artist offers a moment that does not explain itself—it simply remains, unmoving beneath the shelter of silence.

Read More
What Light Remembers
What Light Remembers

1 min read

Light rests on the Buddha’s chest without revealing him. In this moment of reverent waiting, the image forms as presence—not picture. The serpent shelters, the stone remembers, and the poem listens.

Read More