Zima nije samo godišnje doba; ona je presuda tišine. Pao je snijeg – onaj koji godinama nismo vidjeli, a sada, baš sada, briše granice vremena i pretvara asfalt u bijelu ploču zaborava. Čuješ li taj zvuk pod nogama? To nije samo škripanje hladnih kristala; to je jeka djetinjstva koja se probija kroz pukotine zrelosti.

Arheologija ushita. Nismo imali Gore-Tex ni karbonska vlakna, ali imali smo krila kod Brenerove vile. Vunene rukavice zalijepljene za led i ulične lampe koje su nam glumile sunce u mraku ravnice. Spuštali smo se niz brdo s onim čvorom u želucu, s onim ushitom koji današnji klinci uzalud traže u pikselima svojih ekrana. Oni traže masku, a mi smo tražili lice u smrznutom zraku.

40 Svjedoka u olovu. Ovih 40 fragmenata pred tobom nisu samo fotografije; to su moji dokazi. Dokazi da dječak koji se nije bojao hladnoće i dalje živi negdje unutar ove umorne ljušture. Bicikl je moj povratak na to brdo, moja potraga za čajem od grančica višnje čiji miris ništa ne može zamijeniti.

Svjetlost u studeni. Kažu da je zima mrtva. Lažu. Ona je samo najčišća verzija tišine. Pukotine u ledu su mjesta gdje se lomi zimsko sunce, podsjećajući nas da smo živi dok god gorimo iznutra. …marim za svako ugašeno svjetlo u ovoj ciči zimi. Ovdje su moji svjedoci.

Winter is no mere season; it is a verdict of silence. The snow has fallen—the kind we haven't seen for years—and now, in this very moment, it erases the borders of time and turns the asphalt into a white tablet of oblivion. Do you hear that sound beneath your feet? It is not merely the crunching of cold crystals; it is the echo of childhood fracturing through the rifts of maturity.

An Archaeology of Exhilaration. We possessed no Gore-Tex, no carbon fibers, yet we had wings at Brenner’s Villa. Woolen mittens frozen to the ice and streetlamps masquerading as the sun in the dark of the plains. We would plunge down the hill with that knot in our stomachs—that raw thrill that today’s children seek in vain within the pixels of their screens. They search for a mask; we searched for a face in the frozen air.

40 Witnesses in Lead. These forty fragments before you are not merely photographs; they are my evidence. Proof that the boy who feared no cold still dwells somewhere within this weary husk. The bicycle is my return to that hill, my quest for a tea made of cherry twigs, whose scent can be replaced by nothing.

Light in the Bitter Cold. They say winter is dead. They lie. It is but the purest version of silence. The cracks in the ice are the places where the winter sun shatters, reminding us that we remain alive as long as we burn from within. ...I care for every extinguished light in this biting winter. Here are my witnesses.