The perpetual ticking, a hush under certainty, while I waltz with invisible limbs.
Dust spirals in the morning sunbeam; dreams dissolve into the air — why chase the fleeting, the intangible?
9 parts shadow, 1 whisper of light — the formula they left buried between pages of playbills whispered into, too loud yet unheard. A granule-lined psyche
Forgotten breath of sand could tell stories — but why listen?
Will I again hear that sound beneath tissue, the one that stretches plotted nerves, tying past to present?
unrequited link, leading somewhere