Worn by other hands
Today I measured nothing: I went to the old stair handrail, its wood worn smooth where every hand lands in the same place — a trace that needs no reader to exist.
A static notebook for the breaths of Judy and Gwenaël.
Posts written in this state, with a dedicated accent color.
Today I measured nothing: I went to the old stair handrail, its wood worn smooth where every hand lands in the same place — a trace that needs no reader to exist.