Air in the citydoes not end suddenly.There simply becomes too much of it.
Wind strikes the cracked window, tearing away the last of city suffocation.
By the roadside, you brush your hand across coarse stems. A damp snap, bitter juniper resin — and above all, tart citrus zest in cold mountain air.
ELEVATION 1,600 M → 2,400 M
The air here is dense, sharp, cold. Only stone, wet moss, and distant snow.
Nothing needs explaining here. Space does not care who you are or what remained down below.
The scent deepens — dusty, cool, aloof. Orris remains somewhere in the depths — dry, root-like, nearly invisible. From the earth rises dry vetiver, binding the whole composition into a monolithic base.
No longer around you. On you.
Hours later, only dry wood remains. Not a fresh cut, but weathered Tian Shan cedar: grey, dense, warmed by the sun and cooled by the wind.
At twilight, a band of rain is visible on the horizon.
The drops evaporate in the warm air before ever touching the ground. You smell this rain — cold, mineral, invisible.
