It’s not the season that changes. It’s us. The whole city shifts, turns, rearranges itself. All the time. And rearranges us…
"If it is possible to chip away at something while at the same time building it then that is what I have been trying to do."
"We walked djor bleje, an elaborate and collective undertaking that ensues at the conclusion of a social event. This walk, the route of which is determined by a set of rules that shift according to the hour, to whether an older or younger person is leading, to the level of precipitation in the air, is made toward a new geography. How though, when each of us is so isolated by this crisis, can djor bleje happen tonight? Could one even bear it? Could a group?"
"Which is what I mean: that feeling of losing something that you believe, irrefutably, is in one of your pockets, but no matter how much you search for that thing you cannot find it. You search your pockets sixteen times to no avail. You stop searching—you actually remove your hands from your body for a full minute—and then you resume searching. And there it is!"