Nicolas Tei

Dear world, I don’t always know what to say to you.

A rusted, peeling iron gate set in a stained concrete wall; a small white dog peers through the bars.
A man leans face-first against a large blank white wall beneath an overpass.
A building facade at dusk with three windows; two glow warm from within, one stays dark, hills behind.
An open drawer filled with trinkets, jewelry, and small personal objects.
Three people sit together in a parking lot alley, apartment blocks behind them.
Discarded plastic seat covers with peeling vinyl surfaces, moss growing through, among fallen leaves.
A restaurant interior with wooden tables and chairs, a person seated in the background, a glass in the foreground.
A crow perched close to the camera above a river, distant figures sitting on the grass beyond.
A cherub garden statue partially hidden by the fronds of a large cycad palm.
A cluttered closet seen between hanging clothes in plastic covers, a small framed photo visible behind.
A residential entrance gate with a textured glass door and an orange mailbox; a cat peeks from behind it.
Sparrows and a pigeon gather on a playground ledge blanketed in fallen cherry blossom petals.
A temple's tiled roof and pagoda spire against a blue sky with clouds; two people sit at its base.
A park plaza with benches and pigeons; a couple watches a figure sitting alone in the distance.
A child with a school backpack walks alone past a row of closed blue shutters at a street corner.
A person walks a small dog past a warehouse wall dappled with tree-shadow patterns.
A cat's eyes glow in near-total darkness on a cobblestone path.