I wanted to photograph the weight of a conversation that happens too slowly for ears to follow. The Dogon understand that mud and indigo carry meaning; the Carinthians know that mountain isolation makes you fluent in what isn't said. That reversed apron with its hesitation marks visible — that's the confession: not what you embroidered, but where you paused. The cherry blossoms here aren't decoration; they're mono no aware made literal, each petal a syllable falling out of the sentence before it's finished. — Mist