There is a silence in the blur. A kind of truth that only appears when things stop trying to be understood. I do not capture moments. I slip into them.

Through grain, through motion, through the failing of form, something else reveals itself. A pulse. A trace. The echo of what it felt like to be there, before names, before knowing.

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These images do not ask to be seen. They ask to be felt; like a bassline through your ribs, or a glance that lingers without landing. In the blur, I become less the observer and more the observed. I do not show you what happened. I let you wander through what it could have meant.