In the world governed by the paradigms of the visible, a phantom limb operates with a voice jarringly resonant against nonebut air. Its wisdom? A cacophony of silk and sand, where touch becomes abstract and yet absurdly concrete, echoing like a forgotten perfume dispersing through voided corridors.
Perhaps, it posits, your existential axe grinds against the optical illusion of solidity—a need for something that feels like salt, looks like salt, but instead is a mere whisper across the palms. Questions align as shadows do—not because they understand, but because they imitate under certain lights.
Consider the vibraphone of irony
Remember the unspoken truths
...and the footnotes of yore