Emptiness is not the absence of things. It is the absence of address.
A hangar large enough to hold motion, now holding only structure. A truck paused mid-purpose, its labour suspended without explanation. A sentence that names a desire but cannot summon its object.
These spaces are not lonely. They are intact. They do not ask to be filled, only witnessed.
There is a peculiar comfort in places that no longer pretend — where nothing is waiting, nothing expects return, and meaning does not echo back.
Perhaps this is what remains when intention has drained away: form without urgency, gesture without recipient, and the quiet romance of not being required. (Quote from Fragments d’un discours amoureux, A Lover's Discourse, by Roland Barthes.)
(Photo: d.)
