quiet weeks.

The coast of Maine just empties out in September. Sometimes it seems as though the entire state is a summer colony, and when everyone drives away at once there is just this ghostly calm that drapes over everything. Huge cedar-clad houses stare out at the ocean, uninterrupted for months at a time. It's the type of atmosphere where every small thing gains this momentous quality, a leaf blowing in little starts across the road, or the wind itself, rolling in from the open Atlantic, rushing for hundreds of miles just to push the branches around overhead in this endlessly fascinating tangle of geometry. tall christ.



winter hint.

shack envy.

the umbrella tree.

torn trike.