The sounds recede as each footstep walks away from the center. The number of people dwindles to random dog walkers and old men wanderers with nothing better to do. Curious glances, I am the foreigner here. I walk alone. I am alone, a stranger, fully aware of being the alien in my surroundings. The wind is cold and the sound of cars talking is distant and far off, nothing more than a murmur one must strain to hear. It is quiet. The land breathes softly here. These spaces of the yesterday, of the not quite yet exist within the present moment, but are not of the present. These spaces along the edge of the city, the web of now and then and maybe lightly interlaced on the outskirts of the almost somewhere. Within the breathe, be it is an inhale or an exhale, there is always the whisper of a story that echoes and vibrates within my vision. Like opening a storybook to a random page and reading the first sentence that pops out without knowing anything else about the narrative unfolding across pages, so to me are the stories running through the outskirts, these possibility zones of cities. Sometimes I feel like I open the page to tired legs returning home after a long day’s work, at other times, to hands engrossed in the act of work, and every so often, the page opens and I gaze through the eyes of a child looking expectantly forward into future, still believing in the possibility of dreams. Wherever the page opens, it is these fragments of stories untold, these stories that whisper up from the landscape that impel me to stop and set up my camera with the aim of creating a photograph that allows the viewer’s mind to wander, to gaze, to muse and create his or her own story.

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