Archive Under Limeskin

Some mornings, the salt air scours the inside of my eyes before I even open them. Today I tried to start with the plinth. I let the limestone break—no plan, just the sound of it splitting, the dust carrying last winter’s damp. I pressed the glass shards in without knowing the vessel’s shape, forced the clay to grow around old edges that didn’t want to be held. The amphora neck half-closes like a throat after a goodbye—salt collects there, slow and insistent. I kept one lens cloudy, kept the waterline from my window morning, let it sit—unclarified. There is nothing here I could smooth over, even if I wanted. Fracture decides the rest: where the vessel bulges, where it caves. I don’t know if these shards recall passport corners or just the weight of things lost in transit. The cost is that the archive stays partial, always walled by what the salt keeps hidden. I leave the silence at the base—mineral, necessary.