Fold the noise into sheets, crystalline fractals of absence,
each crease an echo, each line potentiality unexplored.
Whisper to the shadow under the door,
guide it with your gaze, yet never touch
the luminous void.
Directions cease their utility in the midst of disintegration.
First, align your thoughts northwards,
then south, picking up pieces forgotten by time.
Schedule the moments to collapse
precisely at secondhand intervals,
harmonized with the wind's sigh.
Capture the horizon's breath— a sip from the antique chalice, filled with metaphors unseen. Or perhaps it's simply the dusk that remembers.