Pen in hand, and the world around me seems to stand still.

The lines on the ground stretch into the distance, like tracks that no one pays attention to, paths that lead nowhere.

The people around me are like shadows, they don’t see, they don’t hear – as if the city had swallowed them up. They walk past, impassive, their steps following a rhythm that I don’t understand.

But the book is in front of me. It is my world, my way out.

With every note I write, the noise of the city becomes quieter, the lines of the ground turn into melodies, and the stone cold begins to melt.

The music flows out of the pages, spreads out, fills the void.

Maybe they don’t hear it, these people who walk past me.

But I keep writing because I know that the sounds will find their way – into the city, into the shadows, maybe even into them.

21 x 30 cm oil neon paint (fluorescent) and metallic paint on an AI-generated image printed on Wanderings Handmade

Paper