Ah, the phantom limb — that sneaky appendage, clutching at my table's edge, yet somehow completely absent. The iconic limb that reminds me, daily, of sensations I've never known, but swear I felt just yesterday. It (he, she) rests where there's air, yet commands with gravity. One must wonder:
- When did the void become so luxuriously tactile?
- Is it possible to itch a non-being?
- Does one's shadow have a shadow of its own?
Thus, in the realm of the non-existent, I boldly encounter the existential full-moon parties of the invisible elite. On certain evenings, I am certain, they foxtrot beyond my understanding, amid echoes of phantom applause.
In Search of Non-Substance
Visit these unwanted opportunities, or discover the seditious spectres conspiring in your dreams.