What is it that orchestrates the fluttering of a moth's wings?
To imagine all systems collide, a dance of mechanics beyond human understanding.[1]
Do the sprinkler heads salute the rain? Where do thoughts migrate when we sleep?[2]
Engines of desire? Or are they constructs of necessity?[3]
Fragmented realities strewn across the circuitry of existence.
Bodies are vessels, yet the light within them dims unsatisfied.
What lies behind the curtain?
Reflections are misread, eluding grasp. The senses lead us on a ribbon[4].
As the pencil skids across paper; ink bleeds revelations—an architect of thought.[5]