Spinning cobwebs while I read my own secret journal from the year I wandered the streets of Bangladesh. I keep thinking about how quickly a place turns from map to memory, how a building you don’t live in can still hold a hollowed figure at the window, proof that there is connection everywhere, even if you can’t feel it. I used to walk streets so foreign they looped back into familiar, standing outside buildings like this one with an open window and one shadowed body somewhere behind the light. The stranger the place, the more at home I felt. Dhaka, Bangladesh 2006.