On Margins

The space beside the text has always held more than we let on. Notes, doubts, small rebellions — the margin is where the real thinking happens.

Every waiting room is a small rehearsal for mortality — a place where time becomes visible, where we are briefly freed from the obligation to do.

A map is always an argument. It decides what counts as real, what deserves a name, what can be left unmarked without loss.

Getting lost in a city is not a failure of navigation. It is the only honest way to learn a place — by the accumulation of wrong turns.

We have elaborate rules for talking. We have almost none for not talking — which is strange, because silence is where most of the important communication happens.

There are certain qualities of light that arrive only in the last hour of the afternoon, and only in winter. They do not last, and they do not return.