
About a decade ago, my father and I wandered between the city and the steppe.

Back then, the ground was blanketed with yellow sand, and the mountains along the path stretched in dull grayish-yellow hues.
Boredom became my strongest impression of that place.



Perhaps it was the deep inland terrain—swelling ridges extending into scattered barren rocks—that disoriented me.


The slowness of geological time seemed unchanged for millennia. The mountains connecting to the steppe felt frozen in time, a convergence of elements.


Beyond those mountains lay endless grasslands, seas of withered grass that even a decade later remain unchanged.
The sense of boredom persists.