In the quiet spaces between thoughts, the ghostly whispers of forgotten senses linger. They remind us of what is no longer there, yet so distinctly felt. Consider the phantom limb, an extension of our being that exists in memory, harboring its own sensations, its own presence—an echo of self.
What does it mean to perceive something that does not physically exist? To understand the complexity of touch, a tactile perception of the absent. Perhaps it speaks to the resilience of identity, insistent on remaining whole in its intangible form. Do we not all harbor such phantoms, grasping at the shadows of things ungrasped?
As we traverse the pathways of our consciousness, we encounter these spectres—arrivals of a no-longer place. They guide us, or misguide us, through the corridors of what might have been. And in their spectral dance, we find a curious solace, a reflection on loss intertwined with touch.