The road bends like a thought half-swallowed.
One car,
its lights flicking punctuation
into the silence between hills.
Above —
the sky bruised in violet and ember,
smudged like memory too fresh to fold away.
Not quite day.
Not quite night.
Just the hour that never asks permission.
The mountain stays still.
But something watches.
And the driver —
seen, then unmade —
rides the seam
where memory ends
and consequence begins.
The gear: Shot on the Leica D-Lux 109 —
a quiet machine with a Summilux soul.
No mirror. No noise. Just light, folded into memory.
