Fernando sits by the largeness of forgotten echoes, a dim light turning fireflies to luminaries against the dusk's folding approach. The room—no, this space—vaguely feels captured. A scent of old books lingers, perfumed with unveiled wisdom. "Second nature," he whispers, contemplating not the grasp of his thought but the touch of it as it glides away, illusive.
What's addressing him is a question whispered between dream and reality, summer rain padding on the edge of memory. He wants to ask, and a part of him feels he has already asked, sitting under this sky dressed in a mantle of star-lit rivulets.
Memorized paths enliven, drift along shadow and oil, like the luminous names of luminaries past. Do shadows speak? Today their language seems almost palpable. The warm echoes frequent his quiet transgressions, dismantling echoes to mere nuances. Yet whispers regard everything—decided resemblance asserts no past.
Fernando can almost read the shadows. Almost, after a lifetime of dreams never leaking light away like tonight. But, reality yawns between enjambments of cosmic poetry held dear on the series of ink-sashed pages concealed by curtains. There exist night revisions she'll never require understanding of. Letting go has meaning carved in such passages.