In the periphery, shadows that simmer, like whispering wraiths tracing the edges of the mind.1 Wander, sit, reflect,
where bricks parley quietly with the intangible mist, for they have separate secrets, known only at dusk. Strange,
how the trees sometimes nod, punctuating the silence with silent agreements, unseen by dancing light. Time halting
to inhale the perfume of moss on stones, tales etched with what cannot be seen because it lies too close to the heart.2
As I turned, a doorway appeared—yet not a door in any sense one would understand. More a seemless
veil between the corporeal comforts and the unfathomable necessity to curiously linger. Which path caches
comfort? Choices flit like petals in winds, their soft landings never preordained.3 Enter the sunken troves, find the rhythm there,
or perhaps, recognize the marks crisscrossing the fields.
Yet one wonders, do the unseen know their paths, or are they just echoes chasing themselves around
the bend of what could be? And when wrapped in their riddles, do they whisper secrets to those ready
to listen? Hold this key, solemn, as the evening star dips below waves of an echoing twilight, never
surrendering the questions we dare not ask aloud.