It rests here, unseen, in the space not taken. A specter of whispers tracing the edges of necessity, lingering in tenets unconfined.
Follow the echoes, where displacement becomes perception. Read the contours of absence as they sulk around the edges of being.
There are dances to be performed, not by touch but by the sensation of shadow. The choreography of forgotten senses pulses beneath your skin.
Oscillation marks its territory not by presence, but by the pull of the unseen currents. Feel the rhythm, a language without script, rife with subtlety.
In the grayed morning, where reality separates by fine strands, rest assured:
your tenets rest on the partition, as silent testimonies to the capacity of non-being.
Escape to aura spectral realms.