Sometimes, an itch rests at the edge of where my hand used to be, impulsively drawing shapes in the air, signaling affiliations with days long unspooled. Perhaps it's a ghost, haunting the charcoals of discarded derricks and unraveling missed handshakes.

The world sympathizes with absence, offering soft murmurs and shadowed reassurance. Yet these whispers say more than they realize; they trace histories tattooed upon thin air, captivating phantom resonances. Each night, sleep is caressed by an unseen arm, tender yet firm, reminiscent of past morning routines.

Find deeper whispers here, they say, as though their edges sharpen a reality less pronounced. Eyes flicker to gentle sounds—and somewhere, a breeze answers.

Gone is not forgotten, et cetera... yet, what embodies the et cetera? Threads tightened atop their proverbial loom, weaving intricate tapestries of figmentary comfort. A limb no longer tethered, yet somehow perpetually present—a paradox claiming its sentinel.