A crack in the image.

It began with a crack.
A hairline fracture in the fabric of time.
There—in the in-between; where light trembles, where shadows float.
I am not a photographer, not really. I am a collector of fractures. Eschaton is no series, no project. It’s a wound.
Open, gaping, breathing.

Nothing concludes here.
There are no explanations—only traces, only suggestions.
“The world is falling apart,” Eschaton says, “but it does so quietly.”
The images: not fixed, but vibrating.
The flicker of a dying sun, the shimmer over an empty field.
Everything cries out: End!
Everything asks: And then?

I didn’t go looking for these scenes.
They found me—or so I claim.
“The stone speaks,” I say. “The ruin sings.”
It’s a language no one hears anymore.
I don’t translate; I just point—
To the horizon,
To the lines of shadow,
To what wants to disappear.

These are images of the pause.
The breath between two collapses.
What remains, when everything falls?
Don’t ask.
The images won’t tell you.
They are not answers.
They are fingers pointing into the abyss.

“Apocalypse”—
That’s the word people often use when they look at Eschaton.
But I shrug.
“Every ending is a knot, not a full stop.”

What do you see?
Landscapes, some say.
States of the soul, say others.
Both are true—and neither.
I’m a magician of the unspoken.
A chronicler of twilight.
The Eschaton images oscillate, never fixed.
That moment when the flame flickers—just before it goes out—
That moment is everywhere.

“Beauty in ruin?” the skeptics ask.
And yes, of course, I nod.
“The wound is the only thing that shows the truth.”
But this beauty isn’t gentle.
It doesn’t soothe.
It hurts.
It pulls you in—like the cracks in stone,
like the cracks in time.

And after Eschaton, what then?
I laugh—and my laugh is like my images: brief, open, suspended.
“Maybe rebuilding. Maybe nothing.”
But my eyes say more.
The gaze of someone watching the world as it breaks—
and picking up the shards.

What remains?
Not answers.
Not peace.
Only the whisper of shadows
and the wind brushing against the image.
Eschaton—
the final glimpse before the fall,
the first step into the unknown.
An end that doesn’t end.
A beginning that never begins.
A crack in the image.