A girl looks out a window of a car towards a line of trees on a hill.

DANIEL

SPECTRE

There's something about the way certain places feel like memories from a life never lived, how faces carry the quiet aftermath of words that can't be taken back, how emptiness learns the shape of all the things it has swallowed, that speaks a language I'm still learning to translate.

My work finds me as much as I find it: in the threshold between dreaming and waking, between what we remember and what remembers us. It shows itself to me as an artifact from a world that runs parallel to ours — closer than we think, stranger than we imagine.