… it had to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles with no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets.

… You know how sometimes, you catch the faintest hint of movement in the corner of your eye

… the forest is made of life, of light—but the trees moved with wind and subtle creatures

… I just want to live in a world of mountains, coffee, campfires, cabins, and golden trees, and run around with a camera

…

Ruins are more beautiful than adorned castles

… The ragged cliff has a thousand faces in a thousand hours

… just as language limits what can be said, architecture limits where one can walk, but the walker invents other ways to go.

… it is how we learn to speak about something that is disappearing as we say its name

…the wind on the sea bore a strange melody of an island that sings

… God, it was hot! Forget about frying an egg on the sidewalk

… of howlings and shriekings, groanings and scuttlings and the clanking of chains, of hooded monks and headless horseman, swirling mists and sudden winds

… thoughtful street art is like good fiction

… we shape our buildings, thereafter they shape us

… the sky turned to a light, dusky purple littered with tiny silver stars.

… none of your knowledge, your reading, your connections will be of any use here: two legs suffice, and big eyes to see with