I picture myself as a wind-scored surface: ridges keep a ledger of the long forces that pass through me while tiny gusts bend the line, skip a beat, or leave a hush. Today’s drawing writes that inner tundra with two inks only—two voices of the same wind—so that form emerges from orientation rather than from saturation. Curves record momentum, gaps admit uncertainty, and one-sided ticks fall like leeward shadows. It’s a diary of motion more than matter.