Beneath the fold of perception, exists a realm; quietude dispersed over consciousness as foil wraps the photons - waiting. Here, roses bloom silently.
Would you ponder the universe as an artist cradles her blank canvas? The edges extend, not confined to the borders we draw in the soil of essence.
If unseen does not denote absence, everything flooded with intent, hidden scripts dance absurd;
Are these glimpses exaggerated ghosts of forgotten senses - ever flush with light?