No Name for This Place

You arrive in a familiar forest, but everything feels unfamiliar.

Unfamiliar trees, unfamiliar rocks, an unfamiliar river. Even the water flowed strangely — as if in the wrong direction. The banks were like nothing I’d seen before: felled trunks, charred stumps, stones arranged in a circle around a long-cold firepit. Who had been here? Why? How many years had passed since then? Or centuries?

The forest existed on its own — indifferent, black and white. I was indifferent too.

I ended up with these images, taken in that gloomy forest on one of the gloomiest days of my life. It felt as though I’d been in David Lynch’s world.