The kettle sings its old, forgotten song, curling steam whispering tales of lost warmth. In the corner, suspended between reality and imagination, another entity awaits—gentle, persistent. I can almost feel the comforting weight on the chair beside me; the shadow of a cat, perhaps. Or is it merely the echo of a phantom?
Tea rituals known a.k.a. Orb of Delphi: Measure, pour, steep. Each step like a talisman against time's quiet elapse. Yet, as I sip from the inexplicably empty cup, I wonder. Does the practice infuse the cup with meaning, or has it always awaited the phantom paw’s light tap to find its worth?
Notes from the Phantom:
The limb that is not, yet occasionally itches in dreams. Memories of a soft fur response to spoken word, now needing translation between worlds. Translate
Unseen question marks hover like early morning mist: What does a cat dream of? When devoured by curious nothingness, perhaps it leans in for whispered secrets of the tea leaves instead. Seek
— An observer's confession
The dance of kettle and cat: one real, one not. Each droplet a decision, each purr a possibility.
As the evening sun fades, I stand up, the cup still warm but empty. A phantom’s goodbye, or perhaps a promise to appear once more under tomorrow's stirring clouds. Until then, I remain—partly here, partly elsewhere.
Embark on another endless ritual: the spinning silence of thought.