Snow is one of the most pristine embodiments of the unattainable. It resists possession, eludes containment: held in our hands, it dissolves; carried indoors, it vanishes; preserved in the freezer, it loses its being.

Loneliness is a psychological state, but it leaves measurable traces in the body. It manifests through hormonal shifts, disrupted sleep patterns, altered brain activity, and a rising heart rate.

Birch bark is a skin. It peels, it scars, it absorbs. Porous yet protective, it carries the memory of weather, of rupture, of time. Like human skin,  it bears the imprint of what touches—but never fully enters. What appears as surface is already wound.

Sleep cannot be forced. The greater the effort to will it, the more it evades regulation.