Berliner Modul

Nothing ever truly disappears. Everything sinks, layer after layer, into this relative universe. Things fade into the foliage of time like memories we no longer know how to read—a slow sedimentation of secrets we once guarded so carefully.And yet, nothing is lost. It remains inscribed somewhere, assembled in silence, waiting to be reborn in another form. The city preserves these traces in its dust, along its walls. Gestures, faces, the cries of the past linger there—compacted by endless footsteps into a narrow crevice, reduced to their ultimate gravity.I wander through the neighborhoods in the east of the city. I photograph a woman watching her own existence drift away. She stands, gripping her wrist tightly, as if trying to close within herself the hollow space of her body.Tomorrow I will go to the riverbank, where the city’s ghosts remain, far from human impatience.