An oblique ray, a cut of weary gold, splits the thick air that time has woven. It has no voice, no history, nor a bench to rest its silent weight.
And there, millions of fragments of absence, dance slowly, unaware of the border. Silent cathedrals of transparency, towers of nothingness that quickly end.
They rise and fall, a wave without foam, ethereal skeletons, a sculpted moment. Before the shadow, like dense feather, returns them to the invisible rite.