That’s the rhythm of the photographer’s life—a quiet and anxious ache wrapped in pursuit. Always reaching for what will never remain. It’s a quest for the fleeting moment that barely forms before it begins to vanish. An attempt to hold still what will never be still. And even when you capture it—the moment dissolves the instant it’s touched, leaving behind a shadow of time. A photograph is never the moment itself. It’s a relic, a trace—something that says it was here, but can never say it is.